


Firefighter

by edema_ruh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Adderall Abuse, Addiction, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Breaking Up & Making Up, Depression, Dictatorship, Double Agents, Drinking, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Execution, Falling In Love, Fights, First Kiss, First Time, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Misunderstandings, Not a death fic, Overdosing, Protests, Revolution, Sexual Content, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, So much angst, Suffering, making out after arguing in the best exr style, not too slow because i dont like slow slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 86,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edema_ruh/pseuds/edema_ruh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire doesn't know what love is, until he does.<br/>Or the one where Grantaire makes all the wrong decisions, and ends up acting as a spy to help to dismantle a revolutionary group called Les Amis de l'ABC. What he didn't take into consideration was that he would fall in love with Enjolras, the leader of said group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Baby I'm a firefighter trapped in a burning house_

_in a silent picture_

_And there is no way out except to_

_watch the love between us die_

 

The loud buzzing of his phone was what woke him up from his stupor, making him groan in annoyance at the sound as he reached blindly for the device that was lying forgotten on his dusty coffee table. After struggling with it for a few seconds, eyes too glassy for him to properly read the name of the caller or even find the answer button, he managed to croak a harsh “what?” as he placed the phone beside his ear with a bit more strength then necessary.

                “Up already, I see”, Montparnasse greeted with his silky voice, and Grantaire exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his eyes before letting the lids slip shut.

                “You woke me up”, he accused, even though he was sure Montparnasse already knew that. There was a light chuckle from the other end of the call.

                “I found you something”, the man said simply, and that was enough for Grantaire to urge himself to sit up on the couch, since he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep now. He rubbed his eyes harshly and sighed, taking a sip of the half-drunk beer bottle forgotten on the coffee table before finally responding.

                “What is it this time?”, he asked, trying his best to sound uninterested. He couldn’t have Montparnasse thinking he was desperate for any income, or he would just manage to exploit it. He needed to act cool, and put the remembrance of all the unpaid bills on the back of his head for now. “I do hope it’s not another hitman thing. I already told you that –“

                “It’s not”, Montparnasse interrupted, suddenly impatient. Grantaire shut his mouth, waiting for the man to continue. “Actually, the job is not even for the Minette”, he stopped, pensive. “Well, I believe it is, in some way. It’s a long story”.

                “I ain’t gonna accept no job unless you come clear”, Grantaire stated, getting up from the couch just to grab another beer from his fridge. He didn’t bother looking at the time. “You know how it works”. Montparnasse sighed.

                “I don’t really have the time to explain everything to you”, he said, and Grantaire could almost _hear_ the eye roll. “Let’s just say Claquesous got himself into some serious shit, and the Special Police is giving him a chance of not rotting in jail”.

                “And what do I have to do with this?” Grantaire frowned, gulping down the beer. He turned the TV on, but there was only static. His cable had probably been cut due to the lack of payment.

                “They want him to spy on that stupid revolutionary group that meets on the Musain and give them info to destroy it”, Montparnasse explained, and Grantaire sighed, leaning back on the couch. He didn’t bother turning the TV off. Sometimes, the sound of static soothed him.

                “And…?” Grantaire urged.

                Another sigh from Montparnasse.

                “The leader, Enjolras, know Claquesous. He can’t go to the meetings, they won’t buy it. It has to be someone they don’t know”, he explained patiently.

                “So you want me to attend a revolutionary group’s meetings in Claquesous’ place and gather enough info to destroy them?” Grantaire snorted.

                “Precisely”, Montparnasse said.

                “And why would I do that?”, Grantaire shook his head.

                “Because we’re willing to give you money for it”, Montparnasse chuckled.

                “Why doesn’t the Special Police send their own spies, instead of sending a member of an organized crime gang and giving him a chance to escape?”

                There was a loud laugh from Montparnasse, and it sent shivers down Grantaire’s spine.

                “Come on, R, you know how this works. They need us just as much as we need them. Picture this as a… mutual favor. We give them what they want, and they don’t arrest Claquesous. You know I need him. No one can get –“

                “Yes, I am aware”, Grantaire interrupted, ignoring the fact that it was usually unwise to interrupt Montparnasse. “How much is there in for me?”

                Montparnasse clicked his tongue.

                “1K”, he said, and Grantaire laughed out loud.

                “Bye”.

                “Fine, two”, Montparnasse promptly offered. “And that is me being generous. We both know this job offers no risks to you, since you’ll be working to the Special Police. The worst that could happen is a bunch of revolutionaries getting pissed at you and kicking you out”.

                Grantaire pretended to think for a few seconds, taking another sip of the beer.

                “Fine. But I want something else”, he said.

                “Hm. Don’t worry. It’s easier to get, these days”, Montparnasse said, cheerful.

                “You’re the scum of the earth”, Grantaire groaned, lying back on the couch.

                “That I am. But so are you”, Montparnasse teased.

                “I still don’t get why they won’t send their own agents”, Grantaire muttered.

                “Oh, they have”, he answered, sounding pleased with himself. “But it never works. These schoolboys have some brain, they realize when people are spies”.

                “So?”, Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that mean they’ll figure me out?”

                “You are the most fake, untruthful and despicable person I know, R”, Montparnasse laughed dryly. “They won’t find out about you unless you scream at their faces”.

                “Fuck you, Montparnasse”, Grantaire growled.

                “Don’t forget to bond with them and make some friends to eliminate suspicion”, Montparnasse continued. “I’m counting on you with this. Claquesous is my only gun provider now, I need him. I can’t afford having him arrested, you understand?”

                “Give me the money and the drugs and you’ll have what you want”, Grantaire answered, ignoring Montparnasse’s threatening tone, and hung up.

                He threw the old phone carelessly on the coffee table, covering both eyes with his hands and breathing in deeply. There was an uncomfortable feeling inside his chest, something stirring and struggling to set itself free. Grantaire knew what that was. He got up from the couch for that second time that day – a record – and looked around for his last hidden stash of morphine. He had been saving that for an emergency, but despite everything Montparnasse was a man who kept his promises – for better or for worse. He wouldn’t have to worry about going through abstinence for a while.

                As he inhaled the powdered morphine with a single snort, tilting his head back as he waited for the effect to kick in. It seemed to take longer than usual – it always did, these days – and he decided to grab another beer while he waited. He sat back down on his old couch, staring at the TV that produced nothing but static, the only source of light in the otherwise empty living room.

                Grantaire sighed. He was so tired. He wasn’t sure if he could blatantly lie to those people who were innocent and naïve enough to think that they would be able to change the world for better. A buried part of Grantaire kept trying to talk him out of it – since when did he take advantage of innocent people? He used to have a code, an internal set of rules to keep him from turning into the monster he was now. In the past, he would have never even considered doing this. In the past, he only punished those who deserved it.

                But he was living the present now, not the past. He was no longer the man he used to be. He was corrupted, blotted by the years he lived and survived, and his code of honor was mauled and teared into pieces until only a little of it was left, buried and forgotten somewhere Grantaire didn’t dare to wander. The morphine helped with that. It eased the guilt, and the grief for that person that Grantaire used to be but killed.

                He hated himself for that, but what could he do? He needed the money. His art didn’t sell anymore, not in this near-dictatorship that Chancellor Charles had established. He would end up starving to death if he stuck to things like honor and codes. And as much as he hated himself, he didn’t think he was ready to die yet. A deep fear sunk in his chest whenever he thought about dying. So much for being a cynic.

                There was no other way out. He needed this money, and this morphine. Plus, he would only give the Patron-Minette some information about that group so that it could be dismantled. Nothing worse than that would happen, unless the group members were stupid enough to get themselves killed, and if that happened, it wouldn’t be Grantaire’s fault.

                He didn’t remember falling asleep, and when he woke up his head ached and there was dried blood coating his upper lip. He grabbed the beer bottle and chugged it before getting up from the uncomfortable couch, heading to the bathroom. He didn’t dare look in the mirror.

                                                                                              -

                **From: Montparnasse (03:49) Musain, Saturdays and Wednesdays, 7 p.m.**

                He re-read the text over and over, standing in front of the Musain. A cold breeze was freezing his cheeks, and he wished he had worn something hotter. Instead, he had put on his old paint-stained green shirt and some black jeans with boots. He suppressed a shiver and instead scoffed at the flier glued to the door. _Les Amis de l’ABC meetings: Saturdays and Wednesdays at 7 P.M. All people are welcome!_ Beneath the words, a terrible attempt at drawing a stylish French flag. Rolling his eyes, Grantaire pushed the door open, the tiny bell at the top of it announcing his presence and making several heads turn towards him.

                The Musain was a café that served as a bar during nights, but Grantaire had never seen it this… organized. A table was put in the center of the room, and on the top of it sat the reincarnation of Apollo himself. He stared at Grantaire, confusion being replaced by apprehension in a mere second that would have probably gone unnoticed by Grantaire was he not this alert. Around the table, chairs formed a semi-circle, and the people sitting on them were giving Grantaire the same look as Enjolras, except for a little red-haired fellow who stood up with a warm smile and welcoming eyes.

                “Hello!”, the little man cheered. He looked shy and unsure, but also sympathetic. His skin was brown and his face was covered in freckles, ginger hair tied into a bun on the top of his head. “Are you here for the meeting?”

                Grantaire stared at the people in the room for a few moments, taking in the sight of them and trying to analyze which ones would be worthy to befriend. Ginger guy was probably the easiest choice.

                “Uh, yeah”, he said, sounding unconvincing to his own ears. Nice start. Thinking about the morphine Montparnasse would give him motivated him to put on a fake smile. “Yeah, I’m here for the meeting. I suppose I’m in the right place?”

                “Yes! Come sit beside me”, the small man offered, outstretching a hand as if to guide Grantaire, who followed him and settled on the empty chair beside him. “I’m Jehan, by the way”, he introduced himself, taking Grantaire’s hand and shaking it. “Jehan Prouvaire”.

                “I’m –“, he started, but was interrupted by another member of the group.

                “You’re Grantaire”, he said, and when Grantaire turned to look, he saw a frown on his face. Confusion filled his face for a few seconds before a sudden memory flooded his mind. He blinked rapidly and several times, heart running inside his chest.

                “Joly”, Grantaire muttered, trying to sound casually polite.

                He remembered Joly, even if he was looking a bit different from when Grantaire had last seen him. They had gone to high school together four years before, and they had been sort of… friends. Grantaire guessed he could call it that. They hadn’t been the best friends in the world, but they were close, and they kept each other company.

                Until high school ended and Grantaire never looked for him again.

                “You look terrible”, Joly said, sounding sincerely horrified. Grantaire couldn’t help but to smile. That was what he had always liked the most about Joly: he never beat around the bush.

                “Thanks”, Grantaire responded with a smirk. “You’re looking good yourself”.

                Joly opened his mouth to say something, frown deepening, but the blond guy sitting on the table cleared his throat, and that was enough to make him shut his lips and shift uncomfortably on the chair. Grantaire turned to look at the man on the center, and something in his heart tightened for some reason. He was even prettier when Grantaire looked closely, green eyes filled with a sparkle of righteous fury that made something beneath his skin itch.

                “Citizen”, he said, and _oh_ what was that in Grantaire’s stomach? It churned as if butterflies inhabited it, and Grantaire couldn’t remember ever feeling such a thing in a long, long time. Apollo’s voice was exactly like Grantaire had imagined it would be in the little time that passed from the first moment Grantaire laid eyes on him. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

                Grantaire licked his lips to wet it before speaking, leaning back against the chair casually and putting on his best smirk.

                “Ah, so you are _that_ kind of group”, he teased, longing to see a smile twist Apollo’s rosy, full lips. “So what, I am supposed to say my name, my age and how much time passed since I had my last drink? The answer to the last one is 15 minutes, by the way”, he chuckled, looking around. No one was laughing.

                A tense silence filled the room, everyone staring at him uncomfortably. Apollo looked like he was trying his best not to glare daggers at him.

                “It was a joke”, Grantaire chuckled, smile dying in his face as he looked around. “Jeez”, he muttered under his breath. That wasn’t a very nice start.

                “This is not a place for jokes, citizen”, Apollo said casually. Then something in his eyes softened. “But if Joly knows you, then I suppose we can welcome you to this group”.

                “I thought the flyer said ‘all people are welcome’”, Grantaire couldn’t help but to tease. Alright, maybe he was a bit drunk. He shouldn’t be giving these people blatant reasons to hate him but he just couldn’t help but to try to earn any sort of reaction from Apollo. Instead, the leader stared at him as stoically as before.

                “We’ve been having some trouble”, a curly-haired man on the closest chair to Enjolras responded, giving Grantaire a polite smile. “With people who come to the meetings just to gather information about our cause and give it to… undesirable people”, he pronounced the words slowly, teasingly, as if daring Grantaire to come forward while he had a chance.

                “You mean Charlie boy?” Grantaire chuckled obnoxiously. He hated the sound of his own voice. He hated the words that left his mouth. This way, he wouldn’t get his morphine or his money. He would end up getting himself killed and to what end? To piss off a man he didn’t even know? The rational part of his brain kept screaming for him to shut the hell up, but his intoxicated tongue refused. “Nah, I don’t even know him. And why would I give him any information about you guys? I just stopped by because I had nothing better to do and I wanted to check what all this fuss was about. I must say I was expecting the place to be a little more… crowded”, he shrugged, looking around with a raised eyebrow. There were 15 people on the Musain, tops. He gave a little scoff, and Apollo didn’t bother being polite anymore. He was openly glaring daggers at Grantaire.

                “Did you come here to mock us, then?” he asked angrily, standing up from the table and walking towards Grantaire. The frown on his face only made it ten times more beautiful, and Grantaire gaped. How was it possible for anyone to be that pretty?!

                “No”, he shrugged again, finally listening to his brain and stopping with the jokes. “Sorry. I can see you guys are serious about this. I’ll be quiet now. It’s just been a long time since I’ve hung out with people, I kind of forgot how it works”, he chuckled on last time. Apollo scowled at him, walking back to his table.

                “I can see why”, he muttered without looking back, and Grantaire had to pretend his heart didn’t sink at the words.

                Enjolras – Grantaire found that was Apollo’s mortal name – gave continuity to the meeting, and they discussed plans to a possible upcoming rally against Chancellor Charles’ “establishing” dictatorship. Grantaire wanted to protest and tell them that a man that had entitled himself Chancellor was already a dictator by heart, but he decided to stay quiet. He could feel Joly’s eyes on him throughout the meeting, but pretended not to. Everyone on the Musain shared their opinion on the subject they discussed, even the small Prouvaire, which astonished Grantaire. They really did seem to care about that cause, as hopeless as it was.

                By the end of the meeting, Enjolras dismissed the attendees and went to the far back of the room with the curly-haired man who had spoken to Grantaire and a man Grantaire hadn’t noticed, wearing glasses that made him look smart and a sweater with a moth on the middle. He was about to turn on his heels and leave the place when a hand grabbed his forearm, tugging lightly. Grantaire looked back, only to see Joly starring at him with worry and apprehension in his eyes.

                “R”, Joly called, and the use of the old nickname made something inside Grantaire break. How long had it been since someone last called him R? He felt like crying, but no tears made their way to his eyes. “Can we talk for a minute?” he asked, biting at his lower lip. Grantaire could faintly remember that old habit of Joly’s, that he did whenever he was nervous about something.

                He didn’t want to go. All he wanted was to go back home and snort his morphine in peace and maybe – just maybe – paint something that would never render him any money. But Joly was giving him the puppy eyes, and he couldn’t say no to the young man after simply disappearing from his life with no explanation for three years. He nodded briefly, silently, and allowed Joly to lead him to the bar of the Musain, where they sat in silence for a few moments until a waitress appeared.

                “Hi, Chetta”, Joly cheered with a smile, cheeks flushing. Grantaire frowned.

                “Hi, handsome”, Chetta replied, giving Joly a sincere smile. She leaned on the counter, raising an eyebrow at him as she waited for his order.

                “I will have a soda, please”, Joly said, nearly stuttering, ears tinged red. Chetta winked at him and then turned to Grantaire.

                “What about you, hun?” she asked, looking at Grantaire and analyzing him. He could see her expression change as she took in his face. Grantaire didn’t even know what it looked like. He had taken away all the mirrors from the house.

                He couldn’t stand looking at what he had become.

                “I’ll have a piña colada minus the coke, please”, Grantaire said, trying to sound as casual as he could with the new hole carved into his chest. Chetta gave him a funny look, and then disappeared to fetch their drinks.

                The truth was, Grantaire hadn’t felt like this in a long, long time. Ever since he took his first dose of morphine, he hadn’t felt the emptiness that was filling his chest right on that moment. That was the major reason why he had started taking it. And that was the major reason he hated himself. How fucked up was he, that in order to feel normal he needed exterior stimuli? That was why he avoided Joly and all the near-friends he had had throughout his life. That was why he couldn’t look himself in the mirror. It hurt, and Grantaire didn’t do well with pain. He didn’t want to remember who he used to be, because it only reminded him of what he had become.

                “How _are_ you?”, Joly asked, and he still sounded horrified. Grantaire avoided his gaze, not responding. What could he say? “We haven’t seen each other in like, five years?”

                “Four”, Grantaire corrected absentmindedly, tapping his fingers idly at the bar counter.

                “Still, it feels like an eternity”, Joly shrugged. “What happened? Why did you go away?”

                “I didn’t”, Grantaire scoffed. “I’m in the same place I’ve always been”.

                “At your parents’?” Joly frowned.

                “What? Oh, no, not there. I moved out as soon as we graduated”, Grantaire explained, eyebrows twitching. He could barely remember living with his parents, in all honesty. It was like a very distant dream, one of those that slip away from your grasp as soon as you wake up. Chetta arrived with their drinks and gave Joly another wink before taking off again. Grantaire chugged half of the cup of pure rum before having the courage to finally turn to Joly. He still had the worried look on, and suddenly Grantaire felt very angry. “What do you want?”, he asked abruptly.

                “Pardon me?” Joly’s frown deepened.

                “Well? You asked to talk to me for a reason. What do you want?”

                “I want to know how you are”, Joly explained with an incredulous look. He shook his head in confusion before continuing. “R, we haven’t talked to each other in four years. You simply disappeared out of nowhere and cut me and all your friends from your life. Do I at least get an explanation?”, he asked.

                Grantaire let out a loud sigh, finishing his drink before responding.

                “You know how I am”, he shrugged, taste of the rum bitter in his tongue. “You know how things are for me. I wasn’t at my brightest moment then, so I did what I do best and ran away. I didn’t want to be a burden. I still don’t”.

                “R”, Joly began to say, but Grantaire raised a hand to interrupt him.

                “No. I don’t want a lecture, I know what you’re about to say and I’m not interested in hearing it. If you insist on this subject, I’m gonna take off”, he announced. Joly went quiet.

                “Fine”, he finally resigned. “But at least give me your number. I loved seeing you again, you know that. You were one of my closest friends. It would be cool if we could see each other again”.

                “I don’t have a phone”, Grantaire said at the exact same moment his phone buzzed with a new text in his pocket. He looked at Joly, who had a hurt look on his face. “That’s not my phone”, he quickly added, immediately cursing himself in his head. What was he doing? He needed to leave before things got worse.

                “I understand”, Joly said, not looking at Grantaire. He grabbed his cup of soda and stood up, walking away from the barstool.

                Grantaire remained there for a few moments, sluggish mind racing along with his heart. On one hand, he liked Joly. He always has. He was nice, sympathetic, thoughtful and always cared about everyone, especially his friends. He was a person anyone could undoubtedly count on. On the other hand, his mere presence made Grantaire feel an outstanding amount of self-loathing, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that without ending up at an even worse place than he was at right now.

                But, again, if Joly gave Grantaire’s favor to Enjolras, there was a slight chance he’d be accepted into that group without any suspicion. Then, he’d be able to gather all the information Montparnasse wanted, which would render him money and morphine – the only two things he needed in life.

                “Joly, wait”, he called just as the man was about to leave the Musain after speaking with the trio in the back. Joly looked back at him, wariness clear in his eyes as Grantaire approached him. “Sorry about that”, he said, and that was sincere. He really was sorry. “I haven’t… I… I just don’t know how to act around people anymore”. Also sincere. “But yeah, you can have my number. It would be cool to hang out sometimes”.

                Joly looked like he was doing his best not to smile widely, and Grantaire pretended not to notice. Joly fished his own phone from his pocket, Grantaire gave him his mobile number and Joly took off more happily than he had entered. Grantaire lingered by the door of the Musain, unsure of what to do next. He was about to leave when a hand touched his shoulder, and he found himself turning on his heels, already a bit tipsy from the amount of alcohol he had consumed on that day.

                “I don’t believe we introduced properly”, it was the man wearing glasses. “My name is Combeferre”, he said, outstretching his hand to Grantaire, who shook it halfheartedly. “You are Grantaire, right?”

                “Right”, Grantaire nodded, looking at the curly-haired man beside Combeferre.

                “I’m Courfeyrac”, he said, but it took a subtle nudge from Combeferre for him to outstretch his hand to Grantaire.

                “We just wanted to give you a proper welcome to our group”, Combeferre continued, pushing his glasses back in a way that shouldn’t be seductive but was. “And tell you not to mind Enjolras’ grumpy behavior. We have all been stressed out by the injustice that has taken our country. He may not seem very pleased with you but I assure he is eager for your return”, he said. Grantaire scoffed.

                “Do you tell that to all the people he scares off?”, Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Courfeyrac smiled, but Combeferre stayed serious.

                “Maybe keeping your jokes to yourself will help you to fall in Enjolras’ graces”, Combeferre said politely, the corner of his lips raising ever so slightly.

                “I suppose”, Grantaire shrugged. “But who says I want to fall in his graces?”

                Combeferre didn’t say anything else. With another nudge to Courfeyrac, they bid themselves good night and took off, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone on the café Musain. He didn’t even seem to notice Grantaire’s presence, too busy scribbling down at a notebook. Grantaire stared at the way his golden hair fell above his eyes for a few seconds before turning on his heels and reaching for the door.

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras called before Grantaire could pull it open. He turned around slightly, only enough for him to be able to see Enjolras, who was now standing up, both palms splayed on the table.

                “Yes?” Grantaire asked, heart thumping madly in his chest. Would he feel like that every time he saw Enjolras?

                “Why did you come to this meeting?”, Enjolras asked, straight to the point. Grantaire couldn’t deny that he was a bit disappointed.

                “Pardon me?” he asked, biding for time to think of an answer.

                “You clearly don’t believe the cause”, Enjolras explained. “Or at least not enough to fight for it. And we are a group of action. We won’t sit idly discussing utopic ideas forever. The time to rise will come, and I want to know if you will join us”.

                Grantaire stared at Enjolras for a long time.

                “You plan on taking down the government with 9 people?”, he asked, incapable to keep the mocking from his tone. Enjolras basically fumed at this.

                “More people will join us”, he said with conviction, tilting his head upwards slightly. “And when we have gathered enough, we will rise. But what I want to know is: is this why you are here? To help us?”

                Grantaire swallowed dry before looking Enjolras in the eye and responding:

                “Yes”.

                “Good”, Enjolras said, shoulders relaxing a little bit. “Thank you for your support. I expect to see you on the next meeting?”

                “Absolutely”, Grantaire smirked, and then he was out of the Musain in no time, trying to get out of there as fast as he could.

                He had no problem with lying. He had no problem with doing the things he did to get what he wanted. But this felt wrong. He didn’t even know these people properly, and yet he felt as if he was betraying them. He _was_ betraying them, but he shouldn’t care. Why did he care?

                When he got home, there was a little package sitting on his coffee table, a note glued to it. _The money will come when we have what we need. xoxo_

                He picked it up with his trembling hands, raising it to eye level as if to make sure that it was what he thought it was.

                It was.

                He threw himself on the couch, trying to urge his heart pace to slow down without success. He didn’t know why he felt so bad, so wrong, but typing out the message he sent to Montparnasse only made him feel worse.

                **To: Montparnasse (20:32) They talked about a rally that will take place some months from now (didn’t say when exactly). They don’t have much planned out yet. That’s all I know for now.**

                He set the phone down, covering his eyes with both hands. His TV was still turned on, the static and his harsh breathing being the only sounds in the room. He needed to do something about the hole crawling its way through his chest, he needed to do something about the emptiness and the ache growing inside him.

                The morphine burned his nostrils but he didn’t care. He would feel good in a few minutes, he promised himself.

                His phone buzzed twice, and Grantaire grabbed it absentmindedly. He opened the first text that popped up.

                **From: Montparnasse (20:39) Keep me updated. Did you like my little gift? (:**

                He rolled his eyes, ignoring the message and skipping to the next one. The painful throbbing in his chest was dulling slowly, and he could start to feel the beginning of a rush.

                **From: Joly (20:39) Hey!! Just confirming if this is really R, or if he gave me the wrong number to fool me (just kidding!** **J** **)**

                The squeezing sensation on his chest returned, and Grantaire sighed.

                **To: Joly (20:41) Yeah its me**

                He set the phone aside at this, feeling suddenly incapable of maintaining any sorts of conversation with Joly. The static of the TV glared at him knowingly, it’s constant buzz almost accusing. Grantaire pretended not to see it, and kept it on. It would probably cost him more on his electricity bill, but it was the only thing that made him feel less lonely.

                He soon ran out of things to do, ignoring the buzzing phone on the couch, and found himself standing in front of the feared door at the end of the corridor. It had been closed for so long that Grantaire was sure he wouldn’t be able to open it anymore.

                His hands twitched beside his body as he mentally struggled against making a decision. His mind and his hands ached to hold a brush again, to allow it to form patterns with different paints on the canvas until it’s nothing similar to its original form, just like he had done to himself, but in a better way. If something as ugly as himself could create something beautiful, then why shouldn’t he?

                He decided against it, turning his back to the closed door and heading to his bedroom. He let himself fall on the creaky bed, something he hadn’t indulged on for quite a while – he grew used to passing out on the couch – and spent the rest of the night staring at the dusty ceiling, thoughts of philosophical existence and Enjolras filling his head for what felt like hours.

                Enjolras was the most attractive man Grantaire had ever met. And there was something about him – the way he spoke, the way his voice changed and deepened when he was angry – that just sent Grantaire over the edge with desire. Even with the single hour they had seen each other, Grantaire already found himself lusting for Enjolras, wishing he could grab hold of those pretty golden curls and hold Enjolras close to him as they gave each other unnamable pleasures. He ended up touching himself thinking of Enjolras, something he hadn’t done in so much time he couldn’t even remember, and after his climax guilt overcame him with such suddenness and harshness that he felt disoriented. How disgusting was he, after all? Touching himself while thinking of a man who he was betraying, pleasuring himself on the expense of someone who probably only loathed him. He thought about getting up to get another dose, but it was on the living room and he’d have to get out of bed. He decided against it, cleaning himself as best as he could with his already dirty sheets, and then falling asleep after another session of staring at the ceiling for hours and regretting all his life decisions.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire nearly forgot to attend the Saturday meeting, and the only reason he remembered was because the sudden thought of Enjolras invaded his mind, as it had grown common during those few days between meetings. He didn’t speak to anyone on these day days, isolating himself completely even from Montparnasse, who sent two more texts Grantaire didn’t bother to open.

                It was common for days to blurry into each other and for Grantaire to lose all sense of time, but it usually didn’t make a difference. He didn’t have anywhere important to go, and the only times he left the house was either to buy enough food to survive or to do a job for Montparnasse. Now, with those weekly meetings, Grantaire would probably have to put a reminder on his phone or to start noticing the passage of the days, which was something he hadn’t done in so much time that he wasn’t sure he’d still be able to. He vaguely remembered a time when he had a routine, a schedule to follow, a time that seemed sunnier and happier than the present, but he shrugged the thought away. He wasn’t even sure whether it was a memory or a delusion. Either way, it didn’t make a difference – his present was too different from that. Ever since Chancellor Charles X took over the country, strict rules and prohibitions were stablished. It was so many that Grantaire couldn’t remember most, but he was pretty sure that recreational drug use and homosexuality were on the list. So he was better off staying at home, after all.

                At first, he feared getting caught by the Special Police – a pretty, soothing name for Charles’ Secret Police, that usually made people disappear and never be seen again – but he knew that this would probably never happen under Montparnasse’s patronage. No one knew how he and the Police had come to an agreement, but as long as Montparnasse didn’t explicitly disobey the laws, the Police would leave him and his own alone. Claquesous must have done some serious shit for the Patron-Minette to get this far to keep him from disappearing into the hands of the police.

                Montparnasse and Grantaire had gotten to know each other soon after high school ended and Grantaire felt the need to get to know more of the world. His art was selling great, giving him enough money to move out of his parent’s house, and even being a young successful artist, Grantaire still needed to get more. That’s when the nightclubs became a constant part of his life, and when he started to put Joly aside. Joly would never enjoy going to a nightclub, if he was being honest. There were too many people, too much loud music, too much unsanitary drug use. And that’s where he met Montparnasse, who quickly became his provider and the closest thing he had to a friend in Joly’s absence.

                And then Chancellor Charles X made a coup d’état and everything went to hell.

                No more nightclubs. No more dancing. No more fucking random people on the back alley of the club. No more depravity, as they liked to call it.

                And no more art. Well, at least not Grantaire’s art anyway. What would the government think of a man who painted other men naked? No, Grantaire’s art was off the chart. Which meant he had no more income, no more money to pay for his bills or his food or the drugs Montparnasse sold him. Everything seemed hopeless back then, and the abstinence he went through was violent and it sickened him just to think about that.

                But then Montparnasse offered him something to do in exchange for money and morphine, the only two things that still kept Grantaire going nowadays. He would have to shoot a guy dead, someone who had betrayed the Patron-Minette’s trust. Grantaire never asked why Montparnasse didn’t do that himself – he was capable of being terrible, after all – but he figured that, if the whole thing blew up on the media, he wouldn’t want to have his name associated with it and ruin his deal with the Secret Police.

                Grantaire took the job. He needed the money, and the drug. He didn’t even think twice before shooting the man right on the head.

                That was what he had become. That was who he was now. A man with no standards, a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill another person for enough money to buy food and booze and drugs. The man he used to be, the man Joly had known and loved, was no longer him. It was a ghost, buried in his past, buried by his choices and by the thing he was now. He was nothing. A sellsword. A junkie. A corrupted man. He was no better than those who ruled and oppressed them.

                But in this world, who was?

                He probably shouldn’t have taken morphine before going to the meeting, but he was too far gone to care. He noticed the way Joly’s lips twisted into a pleased smile when he entered the Musain, and the way Enjolras’ eyes seemed to sparkle with renewed excitement as he sat down on the chair between Joly and a man he hadn’t gotten to know.

                “I am glad you could make it, citizen”, Enjolras told him, standing in front of him with something akin to pride in his face. Grantaire’s stomach churned. If only Enjolras knew. Pride would be the last thing in his expression if he only knew the things Grantaire had done. The things that he was doing.

                “No need to call me citizen”, Grantaire said, doing his best to sound light-hearted. “Just call me Grantaire”.

                Enjolras seemed hesitant for a moment, but nodded.   

                “As you prefer”, he said, and then walked away to greet someone who had just arrived.

                “I’m really glad you’re here”, Joly told him, and Grantaire let out a sad, quiet sigh. In the past, there would never be such formality between himself and Joly, but he supposed four years without speaking to each other probably ruined the intimacy they once had. He only wished that conversations with the man didn’t sound so mechanical, but again, that was his own fault. “Have you met Lesgle?”, he asked, gesturing to the man sitting beside Grantaire.

                “No”, Grantaire said, turning to the bald man. He had black skin and a huge smile plastered on his face. They shook hands, and Grantaire had a vague feeling of familiarity with the man, but couldn’t tell why.

                “Nice to meet you”, Lesgle said, and Grantaire nodded.

                “Lesgle went to the same school as we did, R”, Joly explained, and Grantaire let out a low, understanding “oh”. Now that Joly had mentioned it, he could picture a younger version of Lesgle tripping himself through the corridors, accidentally bumping on other people and knocking piles of books down.

                “You will probably remember me from the incident when the chemistry lab caught on fire”, Lesgle said. “I don’t have the best of lucks, I will let you know”.

                “I believe I remember”, Grantaire laughed. Lesgle looked like a nice person.

                “I got suspended for nearly a week because of that”, Lesgle continued. “Apparently, having bad luck is not an acceptable excuse for setting fire to part of the school. But the joke was on them; I got to spend six days doing nothing and walking around Meaux and breathing in the fresh air that school didn’t provide”, he shrugged. “And I came back as the hero who saved the asses of dozens of people who had their chemistry exams cancelled, so who’s the real winner, huh?”, he laughed, and Joly mimicked him. Grantaire chuckled.

                “Wait, so you’re from Meaux?”, Grantaire asked, a smirk already playing on his lips.

                “Born and raised”, Lesgle nodded solemnly. Grantaire let out a loud laugh. “What’s so funny about that?”, Lesgle asked, sounding more curious than offended.

                “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to call you Bossuet from now on”, Grantaire shrugged, smirking. Bossuet gaped at him as if Grantaire was the best thing that had happened in his life right before bursting into uncontrollable laughter and accidentally elbowing Courfeyrac in the ribs. Joly stared at them in confusion.

                “I don’t get it”, he frowned.

                “This is the best thing ever!”, Bossuet exclaimed. “Joly, you inconsiderate man! Why have you never introduced me to Grantaire before?”, he asked, sounding fake-hurt.

                “Nah, you can call me R”, Grantaire shrugged, sincerely smiling. “That’s also a pun”.

                Bossuet cackled uncontrollably, head thrown back and arms twisting around his belly. Grantaire liked him. To have someone laugh that hard at one of his stupid jokes made something warm and familiar blossom inside him.

                Montparnasse never laughed at any of his jokes, so he stopped making them.

                “I still don’t get it”, Joly whispered to himself, at the same time Enjolras cleared his throat, standing in front of the table at the center of the room. Bossuet’s laughs came to a stop and he whipped a single tear from his eye before recomposing himself, sitting up straight at his chair to pay attention to Enjolras, like all the members of the group did.

                “Citizens, welcome”, Enjolras greeted, and Grantaire couldn’t help but to roll his eyes. Why did this guy kept calling everyone citizen? He seemed too young to be using that type of vocabulary. “Tonight we shall discuss the preparations for the upcoming rally and the main topics we will protest about. Combeferre suggested we make a petition to claim back the rights of LBTQA people, but that won’t be our only claim. Does anyone have any other suggestions?”

                “Pro-choice legislation”, a red-headed man said, Feuilly if Grantaire remembered it correctly. Enjolras nodded proudly, giving Feuilly a heart-felt smile. Grantaire’s whole world stopped.

                If he had thought Enjolras was beautiful so far, was because he had never seen him smile. The entire world around him dulled and went colorless, for all that mattered was Enjolras, rosy lips stretching upwards to reveal perfect white teeth, allowing dimples to appear on either side of his cheeks and tiny, barely noticeable wrinkles of happiness to form on the corner of his green, expressive eyes. Grantaire didn’t even notice he was gaping at him.

                “Well put as always, Feuilly, thank you”, Enjolras nodded, and he blushed, for god’s sake, literally _blushed_.

                And then Grantaire’s entire world collapsed, pure dread giving place to the admiration he felt mere seconds before.

                Of course. Of fucking course. He was so stupid that he couldn’t help but to snort. He was pathetic, really. He never really thought he’d have a chance with Enjolras, but to find that the man was taken still made him disappointed for some reason. He obviously had a crush on this Feuilly guy, who wasn’t unattractive himself. Maybe they were together, how would Grantaire know? He wasn’t close to either of them to be sure. But there was something clearly going on between the two of them, either sexual tension or a stablished relationship. And Grantaire loathed himself more than he ever had. There he was, dreaming of being with a man who was already taken, who probably didn’t even look his way twice.

                “You have something to add, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked with a raised eyebrow, and Grantaire saw that the smile that had painted on his face had given place to a challenging scowl. Sure. He probably thought that Grantaire’s scoff had been aimed towards him.

                How pretentious was that? And still, Grantaire couldn’t exactly blame him. If he was as beautiful and charming as Enjolras, he would probably think that the world revolved around him, too.

                “I was just thinking how a group of…”, he leaned forward on his chair, pretending to count the people on the room even though he already knew the number by heart. “Eleven people is going to make a successful enough protest to take the government down”. He leaned back against the chair, staring at Enjolras, who had gone back to being serious again.

                “Of course we won’t take the government down with a single protest”, Enjolras refuted, sounding as if he thought Grantaire was the most stupid man he had ever seen. “But it’s a start. It’s something to catch people’s attention and make them realize that not everyone agrees with Charles X’s dictatorship. As soon as we have the people on our side, we will have enough strength to put the usurper down and elect a proper leader”. He tilted his head slightly back, as Grantaire noticed he tended to do whenever he argued with someone and thought he had delivered an uncontestable point. Grantaire chuckled, not at what he had said but at the gesture, but of course Enjolras took it personally and seemed angrier than before.

                “Are you really that naïve?” Grantaire asked with a smile, taking advantage of Enjolras’ misconception of his chuckle. “Ok, firstly, Enjolras, we’re living in a dictatorship here, welcome to the real world. If you make a ‘protest’, or whatever it is you want to do, with ten people, you’re all going to be arrested or die. Or be arrested _and_ die, honestly”, he shrugged, sounding very casual. He couldn’t believe how naïve these people were. “To make a protest that will actually raise awareness, you need to have more people. And for that you need a better flier, if I’m being honest. A logo or something. That flier on the door of the Musain looks like an announcement for an apartment that’s cheap because it’s inhabited by a poltergeist. It’s not catching any eyes, and even if it is, it’s not bringing anyone’s interests. If you guys really want to fight and change the status quo, you gotta put effort into attracting people to the cause. Maybe ten people protesting against the Chancellor will catch some eyes, but it won’t do anything for any of you if you all get arrested and locked away in a cell for treason until you die”.

                The Musain fell into silence. All eyes were on him. Enjolras still looked angry, but not as much as before.

                “Well”, Enjolras finally sighed, clearly resigned. “What do you suggest we do, then? We all know that speaking out against Charles X is considered treason and it’s a crime punishable with death. We can’t exactly go on the streets giving out flyers that invite people to come to meetings that discuss overthrowing the Chancellor”.

                “But you can make a protest about it?” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Enjolras was a man of conviction, but he needed a bit more of realism to balance all his utopic idealism. Grantaire knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing anything, he was supposed to only watch and gather useful information, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing all these stupid, overly nice people – people like Joly, like Lesgle, like the small Jehan Prouvaire who greeted him with a kiss on the cheek when he arrived – were about to march to their deaths for nothing. “Look, Enjolras”, he sighed, hating himself. What was he doing? He didn’t even know most of these people. He shouldn’t care about them. “What you need right now is publicity, not action. You talk about helping the people to free themselves from the Chancellor, but do you even know the people you’re trying to save? Or are you just one of these people with superiority problems and a God complex?

                Alright. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that last part. But how else was he supposed to make Enjolras see the truth? The man opened his mouth to speak, nostrils flaring, but Grantaire continued before he got kicked out.

                “Maybe I can help”, he said, and surprise mixed with annoyance in Enjolras’ face. “I used to be an artist before all this shit went down, Joly knows that. Maybe I can design you some logos and you can make a new flier, something that doesn’t look as boring as this one on the door. And then y’all can blend in with the people you want to save so badly, and figure out which ones you should give the flyers to. But that’s just an idea”, he shrugged casually.

                All the eyes were still on him. But Enjolras’ gaze was the only one that mattered, and it was burning holes through Grantaire’s skull.

                “ _We_ want to save”, Enjolras said, looking suspicious, and Grantaire frowned.

                “What?”, he asked, confused.

                “The people _we_ want to save, all of us here”, Enjolras corrected, not even blinking. Grantaire felt his heart pace increase. “You’re in this with us, are you not, Grantaire?”. There seemed to be an accusation in his tone somewhere.

                They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity of silence, the tension in the room becoming almost tangible. Grantaire swallowed dry before responding.

                “Yes”, he said, tongue heavy. “I am”.

                More staring. Grantaire felt like he could stare at Enjolras forever, but the fear that his own eyes betrayed him about his true intentions made him want to break the contact. Still, he couldn’t, otherwise he would be turning himself in, and thankfully Combeferre – bless him – intervened.

                “That’s good”, he announced, standing up and passing a hand around Enjolras’ shoulders. “Now, does anyone have any other suggestions?”

                It took some time before the meeting went back to normal, but Grantaire let out a relieved sigh when Enjolras finally tore his eyes away from him. The reunion didn’t last for much longer, though, and by the end of if Joly invited him to the bar once more, this time with Bossuet accompanying them. They seemed to be very close.

                “Ah, man, you’ve got some balls”, Bossuet commented as they sat by the stool. “I mean, I love Enjolras, but no one’s ever dared to stand up to him like that”.

                “So you all do what he says even if you know he’s wrong?”, Grantaire frowned. That way, Enjolras didn’t sound much better than Charles X.

                “No, it’s not like that”, Joly shook his head vehemently. “When we disagree with him we tell him. Just… not like this”.

                “You wrecked him, buddy”, Bossuet said, and then he spotted Chetta. “Ah, Musichetta!” he greeted, eyes sparkling. The waitress – Grantaire should have figured out that Chetta was just a nickname –  approached them, leaning on the counter the same way she had done the night before. “You are a sight for my sore eyes”.

                “Hey there, handsome”, she smiled, exactly like on the night before. Bossuet leaned forward and they rubbed their noses together in a playful way. Grantaire spared a subtle glance to Joly, but he seemed unbothered. “Watcha gonna order tonight?”, she asked casually, picking up a tiny piece of paper and a pen.

                “Mm, I don’t know, what do you have for me?”, he asked with a flirtatious smile, but Joly finally rolled his eyes.

                “R is here, you guys”, he announced the obvious, make them both turn to look at Grantaire, who had an eyebrow raised at the pair.

                “So what?” Musichetta asked with a playful scoff. “He’s never seen a polyamorous relationship before?”

                “Oh, so that’s what it is”, Grantaire nodded, amused. He never thought anyone – especially not Joly – would be so daring as to break one of the main rules of Charles X’s dictatorship. If they were caught, they’d probably be arrested or worse.

                “Yeah”, Musichetta said with challenge in her dark eyes. “You have a problem with that?”

                “Definitely not”, Grantaire sustained her gaze, mimicking her and biting his lower lip. Joly and Bossuet looked uncomfortable. A few tense seconds passed before Musichetta laughed loudly, throwing her head back and walking away from the counter.

                “Oh, you’re funny Grand R”, she teased. “Should I get you guys the usual?”

                “Yes, please”, Joly said politely, looking uncomfortable. He was clearly avoiding Grantaire’s gaze.

                “Hey”, Grantaire said, nudging him gently with his elbow. He realized he had probably hurt Joly by disappearing from his life with no explanation, and the man had all the reasons in the world not to trust him. “You know you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone, right?”

                Joly hesitated for a few seconds before finally meeting Grantaire’s eyes. Bossuet watched them silently.

                “Yeah, I know”, Joly finally said, apparently relaxing.

                Musichetta was quicker to fetch their drinks this time, and unlike the last meeting, she stood by to enter their conversation. Joly, Bossuet and Chetta entered a joyful banter, and Grantaire started to feel like the odd one out. He suddenly wanted to return to the safety of his dark apartment, where he could listen to soothing static and not worry constantly about dropping the mask that he was forced to wear. In the darkness, he could be who he was – the disgusting, pathetic loser he had become out of his own fault. Here, in the open, he had to pretend to be something he could never be. And seeing Enjolras’ passion sparkling in his eyes, to see these men’s blind belief, only made Grantaire more self-aware of the obnoxious cynic he had turned himself into. He was just enough of a hypocrite to be bothered by that, and suddenly the adrenaline that made him want to stand up and flee the scene filled his system, yelling at him to hide into the reeking shadows of his apartment and never leave again. In the darkness, he could be who he was.

                “So, how did you find about our group, R?”, Joly asked with curiosity. Grantaire was brought out of his stupor – when had he started acting like this? – and turned to Joly, only to find the man trying to hide his worry with a nervous smile. What could Grantaire say? He knew he should have thought of a fake story about getting to know the Amis, but he couldn’t be bothered. Thankfully, his mind was still sharp and quick, and he found himself saying:

                “A friend recommended. It isn’t quite her cup of tea, but she thought I would like it”, he shrugged, taking a sip of his rum.

                “Really? What’s her name?” Musichetta asked. “Unfortunately we don’t have many girls around here”.

                “Éponine”, Grantaire said. He faintly remembered Montparnasse telling him something about one of his associates, Éponine, going to meetings because of a guy that attended. But after her crush found a girlfriend, she disappeared from the Musain, going back to working to Montparnasse.

                “You’re friends with Éponine?” Musichetta asked with a frown. He wasn’t exactly friends with her – she was the one who usually delivered his payments and his drugs, and the fucked sometimes when they were both too lonely or when she was too desperate to find someone better. They talked sometimes, after all that, and Grantaire let her crash on his couch a little many too times when her father started being too much of an abusive asshole. They weren’t exactly friends, but they weren’t exactly not friends either. It was complicated.

                “Yeah”, he ended up saying. “You have a problem with that?”, he asked, mimicking Musichetta with a teasing smile.

                She chuckled, picking his now empty glass of rum and refilling it absentmindedly.

                “Nah. She’s just a bit… ah, never mind”.

                “Isn’t Éponine that weird girl who had a crush on Marius?” Bossuet asked a bit too loudly.

                “Lesgle!”, Joly reprehended.

                “Wait, her crush was Pontmercy?!” Grantaire asked, horrified. He looked back over his shoulder to see which Amis had lingered on the Musain after the meeting’s end, and saw Marius sitting with a petite blond girl on the corner of the room, talking sweetly to each other. He looked like a doofus. How on earth could Éponine have falling in love with such a man? “Damn. When she talked about him I would have never imagined someone like Marius”.

                “Hey, don’t shit-talk Marius, you don’t even know him”, Bossuet reprehended. “He’s a nice guy”.

                “Yeah, nice enough to break her fucking heart”, Grantaire muttered, gulping down his rum. Musichetta eyed him questioningly, and he just raised his eyebrows and nodded. She hesitated before refilling his glass.

                “It’s not like he was obliged to like her back”, Joly stated, sipping his soda. “The heart wants what the heart wants. And his heart wanted sweet Cosette”.

                Grantaire scoffed, playing with his half-empty glass.

                “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t even know the guy”, Grantaire shrugged. “What I do know is that he was oblivious enough to not realize Éponine was in love with him, lead her on and then suddenly go hours ranting about this Colette and how much he was in love with someone else to her face. That ain’t right”.

                “Cosette”, Joly corrected. “And yes, Marius is a bit oblivious. But he means no harm. He doesn’t even know why Éponine disappeared until now”. There was a tinge of resent in Joly’s tone, but Grantaire dared not look at him, merely scoffing and finishing his drink. He set the glass loudly on the counter, staring at Musichetta again.

                “You already had three glasses”, she stated with a frown. “Are you sure –“

                “Hit me up”, Grantaire interrupted. He was starting to feel dizzy, but that’s what he had been aiming for. It felt like the morphine he had inhaled before leaving home was starting to lose effect, even though he knew it was too early for that. He needed to be intoxicated, otherwise he wouldn’t handle staying there with these people. Musichetta filled his glass with a glare, but Joly was now openly staring at him.

                “Don’t you think you should slow down?” he suggested with worry. “This is not a healthy endeavor”.

                Grantaire laughed obnoxiously loud at this. If only Joly knew half the shit he did.

                “Nah, don’t worry about me”, he said playfully. Why should Joly? He wasn’t worth it. “I’m used to it”.

                Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look, but said nothing else.

                “What about you guys?”, Grantaire asked. “How did you two end up in this revolutionary group?”

                “At uni”, Bossuet explained. “Joly’s campus was next to mine, so we met there. And Enjolras went to the same law school as I did. It started with just talk, at first it was just the three of us plus Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and then we started drawing more people to the cause and decided to give a name for the group”.

                “Bahorel knows the owner of the Musain, and since Mme Houcheloup is sympathetic to our ideals, she lets us use it to lead meetings on Wednesdays and Saturdays. So when we graduated, we started meeting here, instead of uni”, Joly added.

                “That’s nice”, Grantaire said, clearly uninterested. He downed the remaining content of his glass and decided to stop for now. He didn’t want Joly prying into his personal problems.

                “What about you?” Joly asked with a smile. “Did you pursue your dream of becoming professional and go to art school?”

                Grantaire couldn’t look at him. The mere remembrance of that silly dream of his youth made his stomach churn again. He had been so naïve. He had been so stupid. If he hadn’t had his head stuck so far up his ass, maybe he could have a degree now and a better, happier life, instead of wasting his days away on booze, morphine and self-loathing. But he chose that. He made the decision to waste all his money on shit and get himself broke. It was his own fault that he got kicked out of art school.

                “Nah”, he shrugged casually, playing with the empty glass. “Dreams are for people who are sleeping”.

                He didn’t want to look at Joly, or at Bossuet, or even at Musichetta. He didn’t want to face the pity that would be poorly hidden in their eyes. He hated being pitied.

                He wanted to leave.

                “R”, Joly said, with an unintentional condescending tone. “Let us help you”.

                “Help me?” he scoffed, turning to Joly, but staring at his collarbone instead of his eyes. “Help me with what? I’m perfectly fine”.

                “You’re clearly not”, Joly protested with something akin to sadness in his tone. He was so pretentious. If he knew half the shit that Grantaire purposefully did to himself, he would loathe him instead of trying to help. He was naïve and stupid and incredibly patronizing if he really thought he could help Grantaire with something that he didn’t even know what was. “Have you looked yourself in the mirror recently?”

                And there it was. Another person criticizing his appearance. Grantaire had grown so used to it that he stopped caring. Which was a lie, because deep down, he still cared, he only pretended not to. As if there was any use in fooling himself.

                He knew he was ugly. He hadn’t looked at his own reflection for nearly half a year now, so he was probably even uglier. But the last thing he needed was a friend – was that was Joly was, now? His friend? When had his mind accepted him back into that role? – telling him so. It was supposed to hurt, but it didn’t, and Grantaire pretended he wasn’t bothered.

                “Actually, no”, he chuckled humorlessly.

                “What’s up, man?” Bossuet asked, and fuck, there was concern in his voice, too. _Why?_ He didn’t even know Grantaire. “There’s something going on with you. Let us help, we’re all friends here, buddy”.

                Grantaire stood up from his seat abruptly, not staring at any of them in the eye. He was tired. He was overwhelmed. He wanted to get high and pass out on his couch and not to think about any of those things ever again. He wanted to disintegrate into a pile of nothing and dissipate through the void, he wanted to get away from the Musain and from Joly and from Enjolras’ constant ethereal presence as soon as possible. He wanted to be left alone in the darkest corner of his house, where he wouldn’t have to pretend, where he could be ashamed of himself in peace. The desire to flee became too much. His hands twisted into fists and he swallowed dry before announcing:

                “Thank you for the pleasant company. See you guys next week”.

                He didn’t wait for a response, turning on his heels and leaving the Musain, making the bell ring loudly above his head and ignoring the weird look Enjolras gave him.

                Grantaire was nearly doubling the corner of the street when a familiar, silky voice stopped him, calling his name desperately. He turned around, only to see Enjolras frantically chasing him, a hand outstretched midair as if to call his attention. He came to a halt, waiting for the leader to catch up, ignoring the chilly wind that sipped through the thin fabric of his shirt and sent shivers down his spine.

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras panted when he caught up with the cynic, leaning slightly on the brick wall beside them. He did his best not to memorize the way Enjolras was panting his name, and how well that would sound in another situation.

                “Enjolras”, he greeted, waiting for the man to recompose himself. And then Enjolras frowned at him, making Grantaire frown back.

                “Did you and Joly fight?” he asked, breathing pattern slowly evening out.

                “Nah”, Grantaire shrugged, looking away from him.

                “Oh”, Enjolras said, still frowning. “It’s because you burst out of the Musain suddenly, so I naturally thought –“

                “We didn’t fight”, Grantaire interrupted, in a tone that announced that the subject was over. Enjolras’ lips formed a thin line and he nodded briefly.

                “I wanted to talk to you about the flyers”, he announced, voice becoming more serious. “I planned on doing it inside because it’s rather chilly out here and –“, he looked Grantaire over, frown deepening. Grantaire noticed the way Enjolras’ cheeks were flushed and his rosy lips parted in confusion, committing the image to memory.

                God, he was disgusting.

                “Aren’t you cold?” Enjolras asked him, concerned, and Grantaire couldn’t keep his heart from beating faster at the words. It made the warm feeling blossom inside him again.

                “Nah”, Grantaire shrugged with a smile. “Are you?”, he tried to deflect.

                “You’re shivering”, Enjolras stated, looking at Grantaire with something akin to horror. And then there was the familiar sparkle of justice in his green eyes, and he started to _literally remove his coa_ t. To give it to Grantaire. He was giving his coat to Grantaire, who was about to faint like a helpless maiden and die. What was going on?

                What _was_ Enjolras?

                “You don’t need to do this”, Grantaire tried to stop him desperately, shaky hands attempting to hold the coat in place.

                “There is no way I will allow a fellow citizen to freeze when I have ways to warm him up”, Enjolras said, pushing the coat against Grantaire’s unwilling hands. The cynic didn’t put it on, staring at Enjolras pleadingly. “I have an extra coat in my backpack back at the Musain. I will be fine. Just put it on”, he said, and it sounded more like an order than anything else. Grantaire resigned. He slowly and carefully put the coat on – it fit him perfectly – and tried not allow his expression to change into one of bliss as Enjolras’ scent filled his nostrils.

                “Thank you”, Grantaire said, voice full of embarrassment. Enjolras merely nodded.

                “Now, about the flyers”, Enjolras continued casually. “You said you could design a new logo for our group?”

                “Yes, I can”, Grantaire said, voice constricted, looking at the tip of Enjolras’ nose instead of actually meeting his eyes. “I can make some sketches of different ideas and bring it to you so you can decide which one you like best?”

                “That would be marvelous”, Enjolras said with a smile, and Grantaire’s brain short-circuited because: 1. There was that heart-attack inducing smile again and 2. Who the hell still says marvelous in a casual conversation? Enjolras didn’t seem to realize his inner struggle, and continued: “When can you get the sketches ready?”

                “By…”, Grantaire hesitated, still recomposing. God, what was wrong with him? He was acting like a teenager who couldn’t talk to his crush without stuttering. “By Wednesday”.

                “That’s perfect”, Enjolras smiled again, and this time Grantaire managed to stay composed. “Bring them to the Musain. We will have a voting to decide which one we will use”.

                “Alright”, was all he managed to say through the haze of alcohol in his mind.

                “Great. Have a good evening, Grantaire”, Enjolras nodded, turning on his heels and heading back to the Musain. Before Grantaire managed to urge some life into his legs, though, the leader came to a stop, turning on his heels. “Oh, and thank you for your help. It means a lot to me”, he said, before re-entering the café.

                To me. Not to us, not to the group. To me.

                Fine. Grantaire had definitely gone back to being a hopeless teenager.

                -

                **To: Montparnasse (22:48) Rally on gay rights and women rights planned for some time in this year. Very few people will attend. They’ll start giving out flyers to try to draw people to the cause. The owner of the Musain is sympathetic to the whole thing and lets them use the place for free. They want to overthrow Charles X.**

**From: Montparnasse (22:56) What took you so long?**

**From: Montparnasse (22:57) Thank you darling. You’re doing great. Ponine will stop by first thing in the morning to deliver your special treat.**

                He wanted to break his phone and flush the pieces down the toilet. Instead, he got even more drunk and passed out on the floor, the scent of Enjolras’ coat being a reminder of the terrible person he was and simultaneously the only thing that kept him from snorting the remaining morphine he had stashed away on that night.


	3. Chapter 3

All his art supplies were in The Room.

                He didn’t want to go there. But he didn’t have the money to buy new art supplies. And even if he had, the government would probably track him and do a surprise inspection to see what kind of art he was painting, like they did with all the others. Subversive artists were one of the secret police’s favorite type of people to arrest, after revolutionaries. And Grantaire wasn’t exactly looking forward to being arrested.

                But he didn’t want to go into The Room. Opening the door would be equivalent to unleashing all the demons from his past, all the personality he struggled so hard to burry after killing it. If merely seeing Joly made him anxious and upset, he couldn’t begin to imagine what touching a paint brush or allowing his fingers to stroke the surface of an empty canvas would feel like. He couldn’t do it. It would do him more harm than good.

                He found some used pieces of paper and an old pen and used that instead. It turned into shit, designs that looked like they were made by five-year-olds. He ended up throwing them in the garbage without looking at them twice.

                Éponine arrived early in the morning as promised with a plastic bag hanging from her arm only to find Grantaire sitting on the couch, staring emptily at the static on his TV. There were dark bags under his eyes, but was there ever a moment when there weren’t?

                “Hey, shithead”, she greeting, settling the bag on the coffee table in front of him and waving a hand in front of his face. Grantaire didn’t respond. “Shit. Are you high already? It’s 9 a.m.”, she frowned.

                Grantaire slowly turned his head towards her, pupils small and eyes unfocused. He blinked sluggishly at her, lips slightly parted and breathing heavy.

                “Ponine”, he said after a few seconds. He sounded tired. Then he frowned. “It’s morning already?”

                “Yes”, Éponine said warily, walking to the kitchen to grab a cup of water. She placed it unceremoniously at his hand, proceeding to throw herself on the couch beside him. “When are you getting this TV fixed?”

                Grantaire gulped down the water and set the empty cup on the dirty coffee table, pretending not to see the plastic bag.

                “I don’t have the money”, he said, leaning back on the couch beside her and throwing an arm casually around her shoulders. “And the static comforts me”.

                She rolled her eyes, fishing her phone out of her pocket and starting to play Temple Run.

                “You’re fucked in the head”, she commented absentmindedly, cursing out loud when she died on the game.

                “So are you”, he scoffed, watching her play absentmindedly. He wasn’t exactly paying attention, head filled with thoughts of Enjolras.

                He hated himself whenever he caught his brain thinking of the leader. The truth was, Grantaire didn’t do well with this whole feelings thing. He didn’t like them. It weakened him. Another reason why he cut Joly off of his life – caring for him made Grantaire too vulnerable. He was already screwed on his own hands, he couldn’t risk being screwed by other’s too.

                “So, what have you been up to?”, Éponine asked, despite sounding uninterested. Her eyes never left the screen.

                “You know what I’ve been up to”, Grantaire sighed, allowing his head to fall back and lean on the couch.

                “Getting high and passing out on a puddle of your own piss?” she asked in a monotone, fingers tapping the screen madly as the speed of the game increased.

                “That, too”, Grantaire chuckled, suddenly feeling very thirsty. He stood up and grabbed the cup Éponine had given him, walking to his kitchen.

                “Too?”, laughed Éponine, not turning to look at him. “What else have you been doing?”

                Grantaire frowned as he filled the glass with water.

                “Didn’t Montparnasse tell you?”

                “You know he never tells me that sort of crap unless it involves my job”, she shrugged.

                “I’ve been attending ABC meetings”, Grantaire chuckled, gulping down his water. Éponine’s fingers finally came to a stop. She lowered her hands until they were resting on her lap, head turning to stare at Grantaire.

                “You what?” she said, voice still monotone.

                “You heard me”, Grantaire said, and somehow, it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was good to talk about that with someone who wouldn’t judge him from his actions. He knew he could count on Éponine to talk about the seriousness of what he was doing. He walked back to the couch and sat beside her, but her eyes were glued to him. “What?”

                “That’s the job he gave you”, she said. “Attending Les Amis de l’ABC meetings”.

                “No, the job he gave me was to spy on them to gather information on the group to give the police and stop Claquesous from getting himself arrested”, Grantaire explained. Maybe he shouldn’t be telling Éponine the details, but now it was too late. She scoffed in disbelief.

                “So you’re what, like a spy?” she asked. “You do know they will all end up dead because of this, right?”

                “They will all end up dead anyway”, Grantaire said, but deep down his heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t considered that the aftermath of what he was doing would be the deaths of those people. But he couldn’t let Éponine think he was backing off. They were friends, but her loyalty lied with Montparnasse.

                Who did Grantaire’s loyalty lie with?

                “They’re planning to make a ten-people protest to overthrow the government, Ponine”, he said, doing his best to sound like he didn’t care. “They’ll end up dead with or without my intervention”.

                He didn’t want to look at her because he knew what was awaiting him. But he turned his head anyway.

                Ah, there it was. Disgust. He couldn’t exactly say that he was surprised by that.

                “What?” Grantaire asked, suddenly annoyed by her reaction. “You’ve done worse”.

                “Yeah, and I don’t deny it”, she scorned. “But I thought you asked Parnasse to stop giving you hitman jobs for a reason”.

                After his 20th kill, Grantaire decided that no drug in the world was worth taking another man’s life. His mood only lowered with each kill, and his self-loathing only rose. If he continued doing dead, he would end up losing his mind.

                In the past, Grantaire used to be a good person. He didn’t have what it took to kill people without going insane from guilt inside him.

                “This is completely different”, he protested without meeting her eyes.

                “You’re right. This is worse”.

                “And who are you to say anything, huh?” Grantaire asked, standing up. He already loathed himself enough for what he was doing, he didn’t need Éponine’s reprimands as well. “You’ve done shit way worse than this, don’t act like you’re some kind of saint –“

                “I’m not, I’m just saying that this is fucked up”, she said, putting her phone away. She looked angry. “I mean, did you even get to know them? How can you look them in the eye knowing you’re the reason they’ll end up dead?”

                “Fuck off”, Grantaire scoffed, scowling at her. “You know very fucking well why I’m doing this. Why anyone does anything for Montparnasse”. He reached down to grab the plastic bag she had set on his table, throwing it across the room with all his strength and making it collide with the wall and fall gracelessly to the floor. “It’s for this shit”, he pointed at the bag with disgust. “That’s what I see whenever I think about quitting this stupid job”.

                She went silent at this, jaw tightening. She got up from his couch standing in front of him. The disgust was gone from her face, and a mix of contempt and anger had replaced it.

                “Does Marius still attend these stupid meetings?”, she asked, voice serious. Grantaire scoffed again, this time a humorless smile filling his face.

                “Oh, I should have fucking known”, he said, tone obnoxious to his own ears. Éponine was the closest thing he still had to a friend, and he was just ruining it by being an unpleasant person as he always did. Why was it he seemed to have a liking for ruining his own life? “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. For a moment here I thought you were actually mad that I’m risking these people’s lives, but of fucking course you weren’t. As long as Monsieur Pontmercy is safe and sound, fuck the rest of the revolutionary group, right?”

                “You’re such a dick”, she said, voice tight. Her eyes were hard but there was a tinge of hurt in there. Grantaire wanted to scream. “I’m leaving. Have a good use of your fucking morphine, or even better, shove it up your self-righteous ass”, she passed him without looking at his face, making her way to his door. She had just opened it with more strength than necessary when the guilt flooded Grantaire’s system.

                “Ponine, wait”, he called, but she was already gone. “Shit”, he muttered to himself, re-entering the apartment and closing the door behind him with a loud bam. He leaned his back on it for a few seconds before he couldn’t take it any longer and allowed a scream to tear itself from his throat. He grabbed one of the many empty beer bottles sitting on his coffee table and threw it against the wall, repeating the procedure several times until there were no bottles left and the floor was covered in tiny pieces of broken glass. Only then he fell on the couch, covering his eyes with both hands and shoving his face against the fabric of the seat to muffle his screams. He didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention.

                Great. Not only he hated himself, but Éponine hated him, too.

                He told himself not to take the morphine from the bag, he would end up cutting his feet on the mess he had made on the floor and it would do nothing to improve his mood. But at the same time, he knew that even if it wouldn’t make him feel any better, it would at least stop him from feeling so much like shit. He didn’t want to lose Éponine too, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud. He liked her. She was a good friend.

                He had never referred to her as such until Musichetta asked.

                Grantaire wasn’t strong enough, he had never been. If he was, he wouldn’t have gotten himself into this whole mess in the first place.

                He didn’t even feel the sting on his feet after inhaling the white powder. He leaned back on the couch, waiting for the rush and doing his best not to think of Éponine or anyone who hated him or would eventually come to hate him. He ended up texting her anyway.

**To: Ponine (9:35) Sorry I’m such a piece of shit**

                What else could he say to her? All that left his mouth were dirty lies, but for once, he was telling the truth.

                                                                                              -

                Monday arrived, and Grantaire hadn’t done the designs yet.

                He knew he wouldn’t be able to enter The Room sober. He also knew that morphine and booze wouldn’t be enough to give him the guts.

**To: Montparnasse (12:09) I need smth stronger**

                He hated himself as soon as he hit send. He hated Montparnasse for answering straight away.

**From: Montparnasse (12:10) How much stronger?**

                Grantaire worried at his lower lip. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

                He didn’t know why he was doing that either. After putting some thought into it, he realized. For some reason, he didn’t want to disappoint Enjolras, despite of the fact that he was a walking disappointment. He had seen the excitement and the trust inside of Enjolras’ expressive eyes, and it felt good. No, it felt wonderful. It was something Grantaire hadn’t felt in ages, and the thought of having that replaced with disgust and disappointment made his heart ache faintly.

                What was happening to him? He was willing to face his strongest demons and to submit himself to an extremely stressful experience over a man he had known for little more than a week. That was so unlike him it made him sick. Was he becoming someone else again?

**To: Montparnasse (12:12) smth that keeps me concentrated and motivated**

                This time Montparnasse took longer to respond.

**From: Montparnasse (12:15) And what are you willing to give me? ;-)**

                Grantaire rolled his eyes. In the past, when he was in his lowest and most desperate state, he would have let Montparnasse fuck him in exchange for a few drugs. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment when he decided that he wouldn’t do that anymore, but it was probably near the moment when he decided he wouldn’t be a salesword for the man anymore. Montparnasse knew that sex and killing were off the table. He was just playing games with Grantaire.

                Plus, Grantaire didn’t think he would get off with Montparnasse. He wasn’t blonde.

**To: Montparnasse (12:17) Ill owe u a favor**

                He knew that was a dangerous move. As much as he was a man of his world, Montparnasse also never missed the opportunity to charge for the debts that he was owed.

                His sluggish mind decided that seeing pride inside Enjolras’ eyes would be worth having to face Montparnasse afterwards.

**From: Montparnasse (12:20) Delivering will cost a little extra ;-)**

                Grantaire sighed.

**To: Montparnasse (12:20) then don’t deliver. Ill go get it just tell me the time and place**

**From: Montparnasse (12:21) Jeez, no need to be grumpy. I’ll send Ponine to give it to you tonight** **J** **and I’ll remember that favor you owe me soon too** **J**

**To: Montparnasse (12:22) lovely to make deal with u**

                He set the phone aside, bracing himself for what was coming. He had no idea what facing Éponine after their fight would be like, and he had no idea if he would have the courage to enter The Room even with extra stimuli.

                He had no idea why he cared about Enjolras so much.

                He ached for him. He wanted him, he wanted to feel his skin against his own and kiss it sloppily while they fucked. He wanted to grab his curls and bite his neck, he wanted Enjolras to fuck his mouth and slap his face and do whatever he wanted to Grantaire.

                But he also wanted Enjolras to praise him. He would do anything to see him smile at him with pride, to be the one to put a smile on his face. He’d do anything to have Enjolras’ attention, even if it was only to argue. He’d go back to killing people if that meant Enjolras would care about him, giving his own jacket to keep him warm. Enjolras probably wouldn’t like him killing people, though, but Grantaire was willing to do anything to earn Enjolras’ love.

                Oh. Was that what it was?

                No, that was impossible. Grantaire didn’t do love. Grantaire had never cared about such; surely he had crushes on the past but they were mostly just sexual urges that disappeared as soon as he got what he wanted. He couldn’t love Enjolras, for god’s sake. They had known each other for barely a week, argued and discussed for the most time and well, Grantaire was well aware of what he looked like. Plus, Enjolras was a revolutionary, an idealist – how could Grantaire, the self-proclaimed cynic, be in love with such man? Enjolras naivety bothered him, but also astonished him – this was a man who refused to stop believing even when there was evidence in his face. This was the kind of feeling Grantaire envied – he had never been much of a believer. To see Enjolras’ passionate desire to change things for better warmed his heart for some reason. Even in the ugly reality that they were living, beautiful things like Enjolras remained as a reminder that not everything was lost. Grantaire found himself thinking that, if there was anyone capable of overthrowing Chancellor Charles X, it would be Enjolras, with his unshakable hope that there were still good in people.

                He and his friends would end up dead, of course. But maybe they could change things a little bit for better before that happened.

                But still, it couldn’t be love that Grantaire was feeling. He barely even knew Enjolras to be in love with him, and plus, how would he even know what love felt like? He had never experienced it to be able to tell. No, what he felt for Enjolras was an ugly, lustful desire and that was all. There was no love involved.

                There couldn’t be. He was betraying Enjolras. How could he betray someone he loved?

                He spent the entire afternoon dwelling on the matter, trying to figure out what to do. If he stopped giving Montparnasse information, he would stop receiving morphine and the money. Ever since subversive art was forbidden on the country, Montparnasse and his dirty jobs became Grantaire’s only source of money. If he just quitted, he would probably starve to death, not to count the fact that the man would probably be pissed at him and send the Patron-Minette to teach him a lesson. And the protection the gang offered from the Special Police would be removed, too.

                _You could ask Joly for help_ , a stubborn part of his brain suggested. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t. He had hurt Joly and they weren’t even proper friends anymore, just acquaintances. And Joly would have no reason to help him. Plus, he didn’t want to drag him into this whole mess. If the Patron-Minette discovered that there was someone in this world he cared about, they would probably target them. And Grantaire already felt enough guilt on a daily basis to add that to his list.

                No, the only way this situation offered was to keep giving Montparnasse the information he wanted. Enjolras and the rest of the Amis would hate him when they found out, and the few, precious seconds of whatever scrap of admiration Enjolras could give him would be blown to pieces.

                But Grantaire would still have morphine, and booze, and a safe place to live.

                How terribly selfish was that? He was risking the lives of good, innocent people that had welcomed him into their stupid group with warmness and kindness, all because he was too scared of getting his ass beaten and going through withdrawal again. He was a coward, a pathetic excuse of a human being, and he deserved every bit of disgust and hatred he received. He deserved to live in a shithole and didn’t deserve the slightest scrap of affection from Enjolras. He was right where he belonged. Hiding in the shadows, in the center of his comfort zone, too afraid to leave. Like a monster, inhabiting the darkness, away from everyone and only coming out to do bad things that hurt people.

                That was all he was good for.

                He barely noticed there was a knock on the door through the haze of his inner monologue, but when he did, he got up from the couch with difficulty to open it. Whoever it was – probably Éponine – was already gone, but there was a plastic bag sitting on his doormat. He picked it up, looking around in a faint expectation that the girl would still be around, but the corridor was empty and the only sound on it was the one of the flickering light above his apartment door. He closed it behind him, immediately checking what Montparnasse had sent him and pretending that he wasn’t hurt about Éponine not sticking around as she usually did.

                It was Adderall.

                Grantaire had never taken it before, but Montparnasse had a better understanding of drugs than he did. Picking up his phone, he saw that it was already 8 p.m., and let out a groan upon realizing he had spent his entire day sitting in his couch and staring at the static while thinking about Enjolras.

                He was pathetic.

                Even if he was feeling nothing like making the designs for Enjolras – he had already decided through the course of the day that it was not worth it –, he was still too much of a pathetic loser to handle Enjolras’ rejection yet. He would need some time to mentally prepare himself for that. So he took three pills from the small package inside the bag, swallowing them without water.

                The effect was quicker than Grantaire imagined it would be, and he soon found himself pacing around his living room. The glass was still there but he avoided to step on it the best he could. As much as he didn’t want to, he needed to think of ideas for the flyer and he needed to do that quickly. And for that he would need to enter The Room.

                He stopped in front of the door and paced back to the living room several times, trying to build the courage to actually enter. Why was he so afraid of his past? It was already gone. It couldn’t hurt him anymore. All that could hurt him now was the future, there was no reason for him to be so afraid.

                But just the possibility of breaking down made his heart beat faster. He had sealed that door shut for a reason. He didn’t deserve any of his past. He was a bad person now. Remembering how good he used to be would only make him feel worse about himself.

                But Enjolras’ pleased smile wouldn’t be enough to make him feel less like shit again?

                It was like removing a band aid. He was taking too long to get the thing done, and pulling it out slowly would only hurt him. He needed to tear it away from his skin at once, without thinking too much about it.

                He allowed his trembling hand to twist the doorknob and basically threw himself inside the room.

                It was quiet inside. He couldn’t help but to cough a few times, the dust inside the room immediately filling his nostrils. Everything was exactly as he remembered leaving it, except dustier. There was a blank canvas sitting on the middle of The Room. The floor was covered with tiny droplets of dried paints, and the shelf on the farthest wall from the door held what looked to be hundreds of flasks of paints in the most different colors.

                Grantaire slowly walked further inside the room, looking around as if expecting something to happen.

                But nothing happened. No howling ghosts from his past appeared to torment him. No sudden memory invaded his mind and made him sob in despair. No smothering feeling appeared inside his chest. He didn’t feel any different. There was only silence, dust and paint.

                He let out a shaky breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and reached for a sketchbook sitting on the shelf.

                He had planned to grab what he needed and leave the room as fast as he could, but now that he was inside, he found that he couldn’t, just like on old times. He’d spend hours, even days on that room if necessary, painting and sketching and drinking. It was his favorite room in the apartment. And Grantaire realized that, after all this time without entering it, it still was.

                He started simple, only to see if he still had the ability. He drew a few ideas that had been lingering inside his mind, raw things just to make his hand get used to holding a pencil again. After a few attempts, he started getting more serious, putting effort into making nice and clear logos that would draw attention and show, with only a glance, what the group was up to.

                Hours passed without Grantaire even realizing. The only things he could see were the sketchbook in his hand and the pencil on the other. On the living room, his phone rung, but he didn’t even hear it beneath the haze of concentration that had overcame him. When he finished, he had designed four different logotypes for the Amis, each of them colorful and professional looking. He set the sketchbook aside, only then realizing that he was surrounded by different colored pens and pencils.

                His job was done. He had made it, and it wasn’t hurting. Everything felt just like before, except one of the holes inside his chest had been refilled.

                He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to keep doing art. Grantaire was an ugly person, but he wasn’t modest enough to deny that his art was beautiful. And it was the only beautiful thing he could make in his life.

                Also, he was scared that if he left the room, he wouldn’t have the courage to reenter it again.

                Thankfully, he had brought the bag containing the Adderall with him when he entered. He took another pill, and stood up from the dusty floor.

                He would paint.

                It was what his heart ached for, it was what his fingers ached for. His hands were twitching from the desire to just grab a brush and paint, he longed for it. He loved painting. He missed it. And now that he had finally overcame his fear and had the opportunity to paint, he wouldn’t let it pass.

                He spent hours there, painting and painting and painting. It was as if all the years he had spent _not_ painting had forced his hand to commit to muscle memory and just do what he did best. He didn’t sleep, or eat, or drink anything, and the Adderall and the paint were his only company. Now that he had started painting, it was as if he couldn’t stop. When the portrait he was working on was finally finished, Grantaire was covered in red and gold and black paint. He had painted Enjolras.

                His hands were a colorful mess, and his shirt was ruined by paint. There was no way that was coming out. He was breathing heavily, staring at Enjolras gazing at him with dark green eyes that were more intense than Grantaire had ever seen. He had managed to capture the color of his lips perfectly, but the eyes… they looked too ethereal. Too unreal. It made Enjolras look unattainable, like the god Grantaire thought he was when he first saw him.

                But he was pleased with his work for now. For someone who hadn’t painted in years, he had done pretty well. He took another pill as if to treat himself for achieving that, and also to stop the tiredness that was beginning to settle in his bones. He lied down on the ground, fresh paint covering him and consequently staining the floor with new, colorful blots, and allowed a laugh to erupt from his throat. It started as a giggle, but it soon developed into a maniac, uncontrollable laugh that echoed through his apartment. What could he say? He had been afraid of a room. For years. And for no reason! Look at what he had done with just a few hours. He wasted years of painting because he was nothing but a coward. On that moment, he wasn’t even thinking about the law that forbade most types of art. All he could do was laugh loudly, body shaking from it. He passed a hand through his hair, purposefully smearing more paint on the unruly dark curls. He probably looked like a mess or a mad man, but for once, he didn’t care.

                And then the constant sound that had been flooding his ears beneath the laughter came to his attention. At first, it was like a barely-noticeable background noise, but Grantaire just couldn’t ignore it anymore. His phone was ringing. He didn’t even think or remember about the fear he had felt before as he got up from the floor and stepped out of the room, trying to find the device. He unlocked it, to see three missed calls from Joly and texts from several people.

                Then he looked at the time. It was 19:37.

                And it was already Wednesday…?

                He had spent all that time painting?

                But it couldn’t be. It felt like mere hours.

                His mind picked up with the meaning of that and he dropped the device on the couch, eyes widening. He was late – terribly late – for the ABC meeting. Enjolras would probably be very pissed at him. Trying to control his breathing, he rushed back into his studio – could he call that his studio? – and picked up the sketchbook from the floor. He only had the time to put some shoes on and grab his keys before leaving his apartment in a rush, slamming the door behind him. The few people on the street at that time looked at him with wide, confused eyes, and only then Grantaire remembered that he was covered in paint.

                Shit. What would the police think if they saw him like that? They would probably want to investigate him.

                He kept running towards the Musain, heart beating faster than ever inside his chest, breathing labored and difficult. He didn’t know why he was in such a hurry, but he realized that he just wanted to see the pride in Enjolras’ eyes when he opened the sketchbook and saw the logos that Grantaire had made him. He would use every chance he had to make Enjolras proud while he could.

                He finally arrived in the Musain, but didn’t slow down. He burst through the front door, panting and covered in paint and ok, maybe that wasn’t the best of ideas. Enjolras was the first one to see him and he stopped mid-speech, eyes widening and lips parting. Grantaire could hear someone whisper “Jesus Christ” – that sounded like Joly – and another person say “What the fuck” very loudly. But strangely, he couldn’t hear anything else. There was a growing buzz on the back of his head that sent a ringing to his ears. His heart pace wasn’t slowing down, and it made Grantaire frown. Maybe it was a side effect from all the Adderall he had taken. How many pills did he eat again? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that everyone was staring at him, and Enjolras was approaching him with a frown in his beautiful face, mouth opening and closing as if he was telling Grantaire something, but no sound reached the cynic’s ears. Oh no. That was exactly the opposite from what Grantaire wanted. He wanted to make Enjolras smile, not frown.

                But there was still a way to make him smile, Grantaire remembered. He outstretched the hand holding the sketchbook and held it out to Enjolras, a shy smile making the cynic’s lips stretch upwards.

                “I brought your logos”, he panted, voice sounding distant to his own ears. Then there was a warm sensation on his upper lip and a metallic taste flooded his mouth as he spoke the words. The throbbing in his head became unbearable and his vision turned blurry, Enjolras’ worried face becoming nothing more than a blotted stain. He raised two fingers to his nose and frowned in confusion when he saw them to be covered in fresh blood. Before Enjolras could take the sketchbook from his hand or even aid him, Grantaire’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull and he collapsed, head connecting harshly with the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

                Grantaire didn’t remember waking up. All he knew was that there was a fuzzy, comforting darkness that seemed eternal, and then his eyes were open and staring at the room around him. He couldn’t tell what rose him from sleep or where he was. He tried not to panic, looking around the room and trying to take in as many details as he could with his throbbing head, trying to figure out a fleeing plan. His eyes finally focused on Joly, who was standing by the door with his arms crossed above his chest, a stern look on his face.

                He opened his mind to speak, but found he couldn’t. His throat was as dry as a desert and his tongue felt like cotton. Joly promptly moved, grabbing a glass of water from a shelf and handing it to him, scowling as he did so. Which was odd. Joly never scowled. Grantaire’s back hurt as he sat up to drink the water, and only then he realized that he was lying down on a makeshift mattress on the floor. They were probably at the back room of the Musain.

                “Thanks”, he managed to croak, voice hoarse and raspy, as he handed the glass back to Joly. The man took it more aggressively than necessary, and settled it back on the shelf, eyes never leaving Grantaire.

                “Care to explain?” he finally said, sounding more furious than Grantaire had ever seen him. Joly usually was very calm and composed, even in stressful situations.

                “Pardon me?”, Grantaire replied, frowning. His mind was still too sluggish for him to catch up with what Joly was talking about.

                “You know what I’m talking about”, Joly scorned, approaching Grantaire. He was standing above him, looking down on him with unreadable eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

                “I don’t understand”, Grantaire said, looking at Joly as if he was mad. He tried getting up from the floor, but found that he couldn’t. The room started to spin very quickly and he fell back on his butt, blinking the black dots in his vision away rapidly.

                “Don’t get up!”, Joly instructed with a mix of franticness and anger in his voice. He squatted down in front of Grantaire and placed a hand on his shoulder as if to keep him there, and then proceeded to sit on the mattress with him. “What were you thinking, R?”

                “I still don’t know what you’re talking about”, Grantaire groaned, rubbing at his eyes. They were very dry.

                “What did you take?”, Joly sighed, sounding tired. Grantaire eyed him warily.

                “I…”, Grantaire started, swallowing dry. “I don’t know what you’re ta–“

                “Don’t play stupid!” Joly interrupted angrily. “Don’t think, not even for a second, that you can fool me. I am a doctor. I know you were on something. And I want to know what it was, how much it was and for how long. Now”.

                There was no way to deny anything to Joly when he used that tone of voice, despite of one’s best efforts. Grantaire looked away, resigned. What was the point of hiding it anyway? He had probably made a scene in front of everyone by passing out, and he knew that sooner or later one of the Amis would find out about his unhealthy habits.

                “Adderall”, he muttered, avoiding Joly’s eyes. “But it was my first time taking it”.

                “How much?”, Joly repeated. Grantaire didn’t respond, staring at the closed window on the nearby wall instead. “How much, Grantaire?”, the doctor insisted.

                “I don’t know”, Grantaire admitted. “I was too high to remember”.

                “High?”, Joly asked with a confused frown that dissipated into a look of wariness in no time. “What else did you take?”

                “Look, Joly, I –“

                “Listen to me, Grantaire”, Joly interrupted in a serious tone that left no space for a debate. “You passed out and started convulsing in the middle of the Musain while sustaining a severe nosebleed and god knows how much time of sleep and food deprivation. Your health is deteriorated, and mind me, but you look like absolute shit, so this is not optional. You are going to tell me what drugs you are taking, and for how long, and in what quantities, and how long has it been since you last slept and ate. And you are going to do it now, or so help me god I will call Bahorel in here to kick your stupid ass”.

                Grantaire scoffed. He didn’t _do_ threats. And usually, people demanding that he did something only encouraged him not to oblige just for the sake of it.

                “You know what?”, he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “It’s none of your goddamn business what I do or don’t do with my life. We’re not even friends”, he added, knowing that it would hurt Joly and make him leave him alone. Guilt immediately flooded him as soon as the man’s expression shifted, hurt filling his eyes. But differently from what Grantaire had imagined, he didn’t take a step back as he usually would. His eyes hardened with determination and he tilted his head upwards in a way that resembled Enjolras very much.

                “It is of my business since you’re putting my fraternity at risk”, Joly said, voice uncommonly detached. “You showed up here covered in paint, smiling like a mad man, looking like a beggar and holding subversive art in your hands. God knows who saw you running in the streets in the middle of the night, and who decided to call the police about it. You’ve been unconscious for the past day and scared the crap out of everyone. I will not have you show up here high again, and if you won’t have me help you as a _friend_ , then I will do so as a responsible man of medicine and a revolutionary who must look out for the safety of his companions”.

                Grantaire could feel heat rising to his face and knew that he was blushing. Joly was right, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud. He had put the Amis – and his own undercover position – in danger by showing up there high. He remembered the weird looks he received at the streets as he ran his way to the Musain. But to tell Joly his addictions, to open up on broad daylight like that, was something he was not prepared to do. He just couldn’t.

                “It won’t happen again”, Grantaire promised, looking at Joly challengingly. “It was an accident”.

                “Why are you doing this?” Joly burst, tears welling in his eyes. Guilt squeezed Grantaire’s heart even more. “Why have you been shutting me out like this? What did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

                Grantaire lowered his head. He felt like the scum of the earth. All he ever did was hurt people, and make them feel guilty and powerless over things that weren’t under their control. He didn’t deserve Joly’s friendship, specially not after what he had done to him.

                And that was what he was trying to do, what he tried to do from the beginning, wasn’t it? Shutting people away so they wouldn’t get hurt by him.

                But if he went forward and explained that to Joly, he would only pity him. Maybe even go as far as to offer Grantaire help, a help that he couldn’t provide.

                “Talk to me, R”, Joly begged, leaning forward so that he would undeniably enter Grantaire’s line of sight. “Tell me what’s going on! Tell me how to help you. You know you can trust me, you can always trust me, you know that!”. His tone was so pleading that Grantaire felt like telling him everything he wanted to know, if only to make him feel better. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t handle the pity that would come with his revelation.

                “Please, just let me in again”, Joly sighed, and good, now the tears were escaping his eyes and running down his face. Grantaire was the worst person to ever walk the earth in the history of humanity. It took an outstanding level of monstrosity to make Joly cry, and the status of being Satan’s son himself to make Joly cry and do nothing about it. “We used to be best friends, remember?”, Joly continued, and Grantaire couldn’t keep looking at him anymore, blatantly turning his head away. “You and I, we were best friends. At least tell me why this ended. Tell me why you went away”, he asked. Grantaire bit his lower lip, tapping his fingers against his knees in a nervous gesture. Joly was staring at him, silent, expecting. Grantaire couldn’t respond. “I deserve to know”, he completed, sounding resentful. “I deserve to know why my best friend abandoned me out of the blue, without explanations. You owe me this much”.

                Grantaire couldn’t keep quiet anymore, he was about to break. He couldn’t keep doing that to Joly.

                “You deserved better, ok?”, he said, not looking at Joly, never looking at Joly. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. “I was a piece of utter shit. I still am, except worse now. I was doing great with my art, winning a lot of money and I got involved with the wrong sort of people. You didn’t deserve to get dragged down with me and my shitty life choices ok?”, he breathed out, as if a weight had been lifted. He could feel Joly’s eyes glued to him.

                “What do you take me for?” Joly asked, sounding indignant, after several seconds of silence. “How dare you take decisions for me? You were my friend, I would have stuck by you no matter what!  I loved you like a brother, Grantaire, and you disappeared overnight for four years and never sent any word! I didn’t even think you were still alive until you showed up on that ABC meeting, you know that? Did you know that I thought you were caught and killed because of your art?”

                Grantaire had never thought about. In fact, Grantaire had never thought that Joly would care so much about Grantaire getting out of his life – he actually thought that he would be happier. He always knew that Joly would be upset at first, but sometimes one has to go through pain to be happier. He was certain that Joly would recover in no time and soon forget about Grantaire, but to hear that he had hurt the man so badly to the point of making him cry about it four years later only made Grantaire’s guilt increase terribly.

                “Look me in the eye”, Joly ordered, voice shaky, and Grantaire could do nothing but obey. “You are my friend”, he said, placing both hands on Grantaire’s shoulders. “You have always been my friend. What is done is done, we can’t change that. But I can see that you’re still suffering, going through whatever it is you are going through. I care about you. I want to help you”.

                Oops. There they were. The words. The five words that would send Grantaire running away like a coward.

                “I don’t… need help ok?” Grantaire said, voice constricted by the knot in his throat. He swallowed dry. “I don’t. I’m doing just fine, just leave me be”.

                “This is not fine!” Joly protested. “Just look at you! I won’t stand by idly and watch you destroy yourself like this! Even if you don’t consider me as your friend, I still consider you as mine. And if you don’t tell me what you are taking, I will find a way to discover where you live and burn your stash to the ground. So please, just let me _help you_ ”.

                “I can’t stop!”, Grantaire burst, all the anger and sorrow mixed up inside him finally breaking out in the form of tears that didn’t escape his eyes. “I’ve tried, ok? And I can’t. And even if I could, I don’t want to. It’s the only thing that keeps me alive. It’s the only thing that keeps life _worth living_ ”. He hated himself for saying those words. How pathetic must that have sounded to Joly?

                When the silence between them became too overbearing, Grantaire looked up at the young doctor. The tears were still in his eyes, but they were filled with something… something that Grantaire hated. It wasn’t exactly pity, but it was close. He took in a harsh intake of breath, hating himself for ever opening his mouth.

                “R”, was all Joly told him, voice filled with emotion. He seemed to be at a loss for words.

                “I don’t want to stop”, Grantaire repeated, shutting his eyes tightly and covering them with both hands. “Just leave me be, ok?”

                “We can help”, Joly tried to protest meekly. “Just trust me. Please, it’s all I ask. Your trust”.

                Grantaire laughed loudly at this, humorless. He was very aware of how obnoxious it sounded.

                “No one can help me, Joly”, he said, self-loathing blatant in his tone. He quickly added: “I don’t need help”.

                Another prolonged silence. He could actually hear Joly’s frustration rising within the man.

                “Why are you doing this to yourself?”, Joly asked, exasperated. Grantaire was about to give a very self-deprecating answer when a shy knock on the door interrupted him. Both him and Joly turned their heads to look at it, and the young doctor seemed a bit confused before chocking out a strangled “Come in”.

                The door opened slightly and a mess of blond curls appeared, only Enjolras’ head appeared between the door gap. He looked around the room with something akin to curiosity and apprehension in his expression, eyes fixing in Grantaire’s sitting form before averting to Joly.

                “Am I interrupting?” he asked, sounding politely uncertain. Joly let out a resigned sigh.

                “No. We were done”, he said, getting up from the floor abruptly and grabbing a bag from beside the shelf, which contained something that Grantaire could only assume to be first aid supplies. He threw the bag over his shoulder and pulled the door open, exposing Enjolras and passing the leader without a second glance. Grantaire looked away, embarrassed. Enjolras lingered by the door.

                “Could we speak for a moment?” he finally asked after some moments of tense silence. Grantaire didn’t look at him. He was too ashamed.

                “If you’re here to patronize me, then no”, he said with sincerity. “But if it’s not, then I guess it’s ok”.

                Enjolras entered the room slowly, closing the door behind him with a click and walking towards Grantaire until he was standing right beside the cynic. He stood there, dumbly fidgeting his hands as if waiting for Grantaire to do something, before finally resolving that he wouldn’t and sitting on the floor beside him. They both had their backs leaning against the wall, and that avoided any unwelcome exchange of looks. Grantaire was thankful for that.

                “How are you feeling?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire couldn’t help but to scoff at the irony of the situation. Joly, a well-trained doctor, had failed to ask him such question and instead yelled at him, while Enjolras, whose degree Grantaire didn’t even know, asked him that straight away.

                _It’s because Joly knows about the Adderall and Enjolras doesn’t have a clue_ , Grantaire’s brain immediately supplied. The smile died on his face.

                “Actually, better”, Grantaire responded with a shrug. “It was about time I took a nap”.

                “You call that a nap?” Enjolras exclaimed, but there was no accusation in his tone, only astonishment.

                Grantaire merely laughed, unsure of what to tell him.

                “Other than a throbbing head, I’m fine”, he supplied.

                “Good. You had m… Us, worried”, Enjolras stuttered. “Do you know what happened?”

                Grantaire frowned.

                “What do you mean?”

                “Joly didn’t tell us what happened to you”, Enjolras explained. “Actually, he’s been locked in here with you since you passed out. We only knew you were awake because we heard you two yelling”.

                Grantaire did his best not to blush.

                “Wait… we? How many people are out there?”, Grantaire asked, trying to change the subject.

                “Oh, almost everyone. Feuilly had to leave for work and Marius and Cosette had to go home, but the others stayed so they could check on you. Like I said, you had us worried”.

                Grantaire bit his lower lip, this time unable to avoid the blush that rose to his face. He turned his head slightly away so that Enjolras wouldn’t be able to see it if he looked.

                “Sorry”, he said with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to scare you”.

                “It’s alright, R”, Enjolras said, and Grantaire’s heart pace doubled at the use of the nickname. Only his closest friends used to call him R, and to have Enjolras call him that made him feel a sense of intimacy that he had never experienced with the leader before. It made the warm feeling in his chest reappear. “As long as you’re alright, too”.

                Grantaire turned to look at him. To his surprise, Enjolras was gazing back. Their eyes locked and then mere seconds were transformed into an eternity by Grantaire’s sluggish mind. It was as if all that existed was Enjolras, the greenness of his eyes, and Grantaire’s heart that had decided to start tap-dancing inside his chest.

                They were so close. If Grantaire leaned just the tiniest of bits forwards, their lips would connect.

                But he couldn’t. Why would Enjolras want anything to do with him? Plus, he was actively betraying Enjolras. If he kissed him now, he would just ruin whatever scrap of friendship they had.

                Fuck. He was supposed to be spying on the guy, not being friends with him.

                He really always screwed everything in his life up, didn’t he?

                “Thank you”, Grantaire said, finally breaking their gaze with embarrassment.

                “But did he tell you what happened?” Enjolras asked again. Grantaire should have figured that, being Enjolras, he wouldn’t give it up so easily. “Why did you pass out like that?”

                Grantaire couldn’t tell Enjolras about the Adderall, or the morphine. If he did that, he would be dooming himself. He would be giving fate the opportunity of fucking with him again, and he would get to see the dreaded look of disgust and repulsion in Enjolras’ eyes.

                For some reason, he couldn’t bear that.

                “No need to worry about me, Apollo”, Grantaire shrugged. “I’ll be just fine”.

                “Ok”, Enjolras said in a condescending tone. “But did he tell you what happened?”

                Enjolras really was a stubborn little shit. If Grantaire didn’t give him something, he would probably end up asking Joly, and after their discussion, Grantaire couldn’t know for sure what he would say.

                “It was probably because I hadn’t slept or eaten in a while, Apollo”, Grantaire shrugged, skin itching. His mind was begging him to get away. He wasn’t exactly lying – he spent two days painting without breaks and before that, he hadn’t exactly slept either. “But don’t worry, I’ll be fine”, he quickly added, not wanting to freak Enjolras out. It would be better if he thought Grantaire to be a reckless person than if he knew about his addiction.

                “What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, exasperated just as Grantaire had predicted. “Why didn’t you sleep or eat?”

                He let out a sigh and an eyeroll, leaning his head back against the wall.

                “Can’t you just drop it?”, Grantaire asked, sounding tired.

                “Of course not!”, Enjolras said, and he was now leaning forward in his sitting position instead of leaning back, as if he wanted to take a better look at Grantaire. “No wonder you look so pale. Why haven’t you been eating and sleeping, R?”

                What could Grantaire say? Even if he knew he didn’t stand a chance with Enjolras, he still didn’t want the man to have a bad opinion of him, for some reason.

                That was just precious, coming from a man who was betraying Enjolras’ trust by giving information about him to the police. He wondered what opinion Enjolras would have of him when he found out about what Grantaire did.

                “You wouldn’t understand”, Grantaire tried to deflect the question, turning his head as far away from Enjolras’ view as humanly possible.

                “Try me”, Enjolras insisted. “I’ve been told to be a very understandable person”.

                “I believe in this case, I would be able to prove you wrong”, Grantaire chuckled.

                “You seem to have a liking for that”, Enjolras commented.

                “What’s that?”, he turned his head the slightest bit towards Enjolras.

                “For proving me wrong”, Enjolras explained. “On the last meetings you attended, you always made sure to make your divergent opinions very… vocal”.

                “Does that bother you?”

                “Does what bother me?”

                “Me, disagreeing with you”.

                “Of course not. Everyone has the right to have an opinion, and freedom of speech”.

                “But I do dismantle your arguments in front of other people”.

                “So? The group is open to debates, it’s always been”.

                Grantaire let out a heavy sigh, finally turning around all the way so that he could stare at Enjolras properly.

                “Enjolras”, he said very patiently. His relationship with the man was based off on lies and deceits, but he would take this rare chance to be honest with him. “You don’t need to pretend with me, ok?” he did his best to sound reassuring, staring deep into Enjolras’ eyes. “I’ve seen the way you looked at me whenever I interrupted you or disagreed with you. It’s ok. I understand. You have all the right in the world to hate me. Just, please – and I’m asking this as a personal favor – please, don’t act like it doesn’t bother you just because I passed out on your meeting. I’m not an invalid and I don’t need sugarcoating. If you hate me, just go ahead and say it”.

                What could he do? It was the truth. And maybe, if he heard the words actually coming out of Enjolras’ mouth, it would be easier for him to get over this stupid lust/crush that had grown inside him and move on with his excuse for a life.

                “I don’t hate you”, Enjolras said instead, and Grantaire actually threw his head back to lean against the wall again. “I mean…”, he looked embarrassed for a moment, tearing his gaze away from the cynic. “From what I’ve seen you can be very infuriating when you want to”, he shrugged casually. “But on the times we argued, you’ve made fair points, even if you’re more of a cynic than I’d like”, a tiny smile. “And I don’t hate you, why would I? You’re actually quite endearing”.

                Grantaire looked up at Enjolras with a frown. The leader was avoiding his eyes, cheeks faintly flushed.

                What…?

                “What?” Grantaire frowned.

                “Oh, I wanted to talk to you about the logos”, Enjolras immediately changed subjects, eyes widening with the memory and meeting Grantaire’s again, now that he had found a more comfortable course of conversation. “I mean, not now of course. You need to go home and rest. And _eat_ something”, he added matter-of-factly. “How would you feel about having lunch with me tomorrow?”

                “Lunch?”, was all Grantaire could dumbly say. Everything about this conversation felt too surreal for him to understand it properly.

                “You don’t have to, if you’re not comfortable with that”, Enjolras said, biting at his lower lip and what. What the fuck. How… how was Enjolras even a real person? Inviting him for lunch and biting his lip like that and telling him he was endearing? He surely must be an Adderall-related hallucination, there was no other way. This couldn’t be happening. “I just really wanted to discuss the logos you made; I showed them to the rest of the guys yesterday, I hope you don’t mind? And we loved them and we reached a consensus about which we want but we wanted to make a few alterations. But it doesn’t have to be over lunch, if you don’t want to”, Enjolras quickly added, face becoming as red as a tomato. What was happening??? “I just suggested lunch because you mentioned you haven’t been eating, and then we’d be able to discuss it sooner and –“

                “It’s ok”, Grantaire found himself saying, voice sounding alien to his own ears. If he had to define himself with one word in that moment, it would be shell-shocked. “I’ll have lunch with you”.

                Enjolras finally stopped staring at his own feet and looked up at him, eyes sparkling in that way that Grantaire loved.

                “Wonderful!”, Enjolras exclaimed, and honestly? Grantaire could die right then if he only got to watch Enjolras say the word “wonderful” like that at him again, with that flushed, shy expression. He was really a goner by then. “Can I have your number?” Enjolras asked, and if Grantaire thought that his face had been red before, was because he hadn’t seen it now. He was almost as red as his coat. “I mean, to tell you the time and place for the lunch”, he added.

                “Sure”, Grantaire told him, still too shocked to even develop a proper response. He gave Enjolras his number, only managing a small, nervous smile at the leader, and then they both got up from the floor.

                “Oh, the guys are on the main room waiting to see if you live”, Enjolras laughed nervously, opening the door that connected the back room to the main so that Grantaire could pass first. “Maybe it would be good to reassure them before you go home to rest. Do you want me to walk you there, or do you feel strong enough?”

                “Nah, I’m good”, he reassured, not wanting to push his luck to far. As much as he wanted to spend more time with Enjolras, if the man found where he lived he could tell Joly, or even invite himself in and see the mess that Grantaire’s apartment was. “Don’t worry about me”.

                He received a warming welcome as soon as he stepped out of the back room, the Amis greeting him and smiling. Bahorel hugged him with such strength that he was lifted from the floor by the big man, and Jehan actually placed a flower behind his ear and dropped a kiss on his cheek, pulling him into one of the sweetest, gentler hug that he had ever received. The only one not smiling was Musichetta, who was behind the barstool as usual, cleaning a cup with a clean rag and glaring daggers at Grantaire. He only then realized Bossuet was nowhere to be seen.

                After reassuring everyone that he wouldn’t die on his way home and that he didn’t have a contagious, deadly disease, Grantaire found himself being led out of the Musain by the merry group of revolutionaries. Since he was already up on his feet, there would be no reason for them to stick longer, at least not until the next meeting. Slowly, each of them went away for their own houses, and after waving a weak goodbye to each of them, Grantaire found himself walking alone on the street on the route to his apartment.

                A series of conflicting feelings flooded his chest as he walked back to his home. In one hand, the sincere worry that those men and women had felt about him – that Enjolras had felt about him – made the ever growing familiar feeling of warmness grow further inside his chest. For once, he felt like there were people who actually liked him and would care if he was gone.

                But the warm feeling didn’t have long to stablish itself, as an overwhelming guilt crushed it to unrecognizable pieces and affected Grantaire so suddenly that his knees buckled and he had to lean on the nearest wall not to fall on his face in the middle of the street.

                How could he be doing this? These were people who had welcomed him in their little group with no effort, no second thoughts. These were people who were sincerely good, they didn’t do things out of interest or ambition, they did it because they thought it was right. They were people who had stayed at a café for an entire day because they were worried about the health of a guy that they had met barely one week ago. They were good nice people, and all their world did was to crush nice people like them until there was nothing less. Just look at himself, the living example! He was a good person, once, until the money and the fame corrupted him. Then came the drugs, and the selling of his soul to Montparnasse. Now, there was nothing left, except for the shallow, thin shell that had his face and his memories but not his heart. There was no way that good people such as the Amis would end up well in this whole story.

                But then, could Grantaire really live with himself being the one responsible for their destruction?

                When Grantaire was at his lowest point, right after he went back to the morphine after his first and only withdrawal experience, he tried to find someone to blame. He wanted – no, he needed – to blame someone for the things that were happening to him, for the person he was slowly becoming. When he got angry and gave furious outbursts of frustration and disappointment, he blamed Montparnasse, for introducing him to the world of addiction and turning him into a pathetic junkie willing to do anything in exchange for a couple packs of opioids. When he got so low he couldn’t move from his bed, he blamed his parents for not loving him more and teaching him that money wasn’t everything, and Joly, for not fighting for him even though he shut the man out. When he felt nothing, too numb by the morphine and the alcohol in his system, he blamed a god he didn’t believe in for punishing him so harshly for mere mundane crimes. He blamed friends, family, drug dealers and entities for something that he knew, deep down, that was his fault and only his. Because no matter how much Grantaire tried to place the fault on others, he was well aware that the only reason that he was on the bottom of the well was because of his decisions. He could have said no to Montparnasse. He could have kept Joly in his life. He could have kept from allowing himself to be corrupted by money and parties and alcohol and drugs. He had had the power to stop all of those things, he had had the power to prevent the world from crushing him all along.

                But he never did.

                Maybe this was his chance. The chance to right all his wrongs, the chance to keep good people from being crushed and destroyed like he was. He could warn them, even help them like he did with the logos, he could do something to make sure that they wouldn’t die or be arrested.

                His stomach churned as if reminding him that he hadn’t had morphine in three days.

                And this time he couldn’t prevent the incoming breakdown. As soon as he entered his apartment and closed the door behind him, he burst into tears, tears that had been welling up inside him for much longer than just a few hours. Tears that he hadn’t wept for years, tears for the absence of parents, tears for losing Joly, tears for fucking strangers in an alley, tears for destroying his body, tears for putting a bullet inside a man who had never done anything to him because he owned Montparnasse money, tears for slicing a prostitute’s throat because she refused to pay Montparnasse what she was due, tears for every person he killed, including himself, tears for the promising future that he had but was destroyed by Charles X’s dictatorship and the prohibitions that prevented him from living his life in the way that would make him happy, or at least close enough. If only he could sell his subversive art and win his own money, without depending on Montparnasse for anything, but then again there he was, crying pathetically and in fetal position on the glass covered floor of his living room, because he had the spleen, aggravated by melancholia and homesickness, he was vexed and he raged, he was bored and he was tired to death, and he was stupid. He wept for all the years of his life that he lost, and ended up covered in snot and tears and the few pieces of glass that had embed themselves to his skin. When he finally got to his feet, was because his stomach was churning too much and he had to run to the bathroom only to be sick all over his toilet.

                He couldn’t take this again. He needed the morphine.

                He felt like crying again, but the need for morphine overcame any other sensation. Grantaire had been ignoring it, trying to pretend it wasn’t there, but now, here, in the comforting darkness of his apartment, where no one would be able to see him or judge him, the urge became ten times stronger to the point of him not being able to ignore it any longer.

                He could only imagine Joly’s disappointed glance if he saw that scene, Grantaire desperately snorting half of what was left of the morphine Montparnasse had Éponine deliver him until there was nothing left. He fell back on the floor after doing it, back leaning against the base of the couch and head thrown back to rest on the cushioned seat. He was eagerly waiting for the rush to set in when a buzzing in his head made him reopen his eyes. At first, he thought it was only inside his head, but then he realized it was probably his phone. He had dropped it on the couch before leaving the house in a rush to the Musain, and he blindly searched for it without moving from his position on the floor. As he unlocked it, he grabbed a half-drank beer bottle sitting on his coffee table, taking a sip so easily he barely noticed it. It was muscle memory at this point.

                There were several new texts, and Grantaire’s heart dropped to his stomach, a coldness originated from pure dread overcoming him, as he saw that most were from Montparnasse. Only then he remembered that he hadn’t updated the man on the last meeting – he didn’t properly attend the last meeting, did he though? He wasn’t sure if showing up and passing out counted as attending. Trying to control his breathing, he opened the texts.

                **From: Montparnasse (23:58) Daily meeting update?**

**From: Montparnasse (03:03) You there?**

**From: Montparnasse (14:02) I need the update asap.**

**From: Montparnasse (19:59) I thought you knew better than to play games with me.**

**From: Montparnasse (23:40) I made a deal with the SP that I would give them updates on the situation, no matter how trivial, every Wednesday and Saturday. It’s Thursday, almost Friday now, and I have nothing. Do you want to have your ass kicked?**

**From: Montparnasse (15:33) You’re gonna get what’s coming for you.**

                That was the last message Montparnasse sent him. Grantaire started to hyperventilate.

**To: Montparnasse (18:54) Hey, I’m sorry. The Wednesday meeting was cancelled. I didn’t do very well with the Adderall and passed out. I only woke up now.**

                Grantaire anxiously bit his nails down as he waited for Montparnasse’s response, not even remembering about the other unread texts.

                **From: Montparnasse (18:59) Do you really expect me to buy into this bullshit?**

**From: Montparnasse (19:00) Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give me any information, I don’t give a shit where you take it from, unless you want me to send Babet to pay you a little visit.**

                Grantaire took in a shaky breath. Anyone who knew the Patron-Minette also knew that Babet had a thing for breaking people’s bones.

                All his inner monologue was put aside under a simple threat from Montparnasse.

                **To: Montparnasse (19:01) I designed a few logotypes for their group, they’re going to decide which one they prefer on the next meeting and print it on flyers to try to attract more people to the cause. that’s all I know**

                It was a lie, but it wasn’t too far away from the truth. Montparnasse would have no way to know, right?

                The ticking of the only clock in the house, hanging on the kitchen wall, was the only thing that marked the passage of time as Grantaire waited for Montparnasse’s response. It felt like an eternity and the sound was driving him absolutely insane, eyes glued to the screen of his phone without even blinking. And then it finally buzzed.

**From: Montparnasse (19:07) Pull this shit again and you will regret it.**

                Grantaire let out a sigh, a wave of dizziness that came with the relief and the rush of the morphine overcoming him. He was safe from now. Several minutes of just breathing passed before he remembered that there was another unread text, the same one that had brought the phone to his attention.

**From: Unknown Number (18:53) Hey, this is Enjolras. I hope you’re doing better! Don’t forget to rest and hydrate. How does lunch at mine tomorrow at 1 p.m. sounds?**

                Grantaire felt like crying all over again.

**To: Unknown Number (19:08) It sounds great. I don’t know where you live, though?**

                The response came painfully fast, which only made Grantaire’s chest tighten even more.

**From: Unknown Number (19:08) Two buildings away from the Musain, a brick-wall building with a red door. Third floor**

**From: Unknown Number (19:08) I wasn’t waiting for you to answer or anything though, I just happened to have the texting app open when you did**

**From: Unknown Number (19:09) :-)**

                That made Grantaire’s chest easier for some reason, and his limbs began to feel warmer.

                **To: Unknown Number (19:10) Alright. I’ll be there** **:-)** **do you want me to bring anything?**

**From: Unknown Number (19:10) No, it’s fine. I’ve got it :-)**

**To: Unknown Number (19:10) Alright. See you then ;-)**

**From: Unknown Number (19:11) See you :-)**

                Grantaire put the phone aside, breathing coming in hard puffs. At first, talking to Enjolras made him feel better, but as it was apparently common, as soon as they stopped talking an overwhelming guilt overcame Grantaire and made him feel even worse than before.

                Why did he ever think, even for a moment, that he would be able to help the Amis with their group and actually do something good for once? He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was a coward, and he did what cowards did best – he hid away and avoided confrontation. He would never be able to do that! He would never be able to truly be their friends, or to add anything to the world. A single text from Montparnasse made him all wobbly on the knees, he couldn’t even fathom what the man would do to him if he found out that Grantaire had switched sides.

                But then he remembered Enjolras’ smile, Enjolras blushing as he invited him for lunch, Enjolras thanking him from his help and worrying about him.

                He couldn’t be in love with a man he had known for a little more than one week. It just wasn’t acceptable.

                And then again, if it wasn’t love, Grantaire didn’t know what it was.

                He would need something stronger than beer to deal with that.

                Not wanting to consume his remaining stash of morphine, he got off his ass for once in his life and walked to the kitchen, finding an empty fridge and a bottle of vodka. He needed to do something about the fridge, he reminded himself, while pouring the vodka on the cleanest glass he could find and drinking it without a second thought.

                He would need to confront this situation eventually, there would be no hiding from it.

  1. He had a morphine addiction. There was no denying that anymore.
  2. Montparnasse gave him morphine. In order to do so, he wanted Grantaire to spy on a revolutionary group and give him information about them.
  3. Grantaire fell in love with the leader of the revolutionary group.
  4. If Grantaire gave Montparnasse the information he wanted in order to give Grantaire the morphine, he would put Enjolras’ life and all his friends at risk.
  5. He was too sober for this shit.



 

He would have to choose: even the morphine or Enjolras. But was he really considering throwing his years-long addiction down the sink over a man he barely even knew, and who probably didn’t even love Grantaire back?

And that was not even taking Montparnasse’s threat in consideration. He knew what the safest, blatantly right option was, but he just couldn’t get over Enjolras and move on, either. He had spent two days straight painting the man, for god’s sake. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he had fallen for Enjolras, fast and strong and irreversibly.

Upon setting the glass on the sink in front of him, Grantaire noticed his hand was still covered in paint. In fact, he must have been entirely covered in paint, since he hadn’t showered yet and there weren’t any mirrors in his house for him to notice that. Dragging the vodka bottle along with him to the bathroom, he stepped into the shower with his clothes on – they were also covered in paint. He took another gulp and put the bottle on the sink, turning the water on. It was too hot, but Grantaire didn’t care, it was good to feel the sting on his skin and see the red blots of bloodflow on it afterwards. He kept his head down, water hitting the back of his neck, until his legs became too heavy to keep sustaining him and he sat down on the porcelain floor. Water mixed with gold and red paint surrounded the white floor around him, forming spirals and different patterns until dissipating with the steam and the rest of the water, running down the sink. This soothed Grantaire, who kept watching the hypnotizing patterns for hours and ended up falling asleep right there, fully clothed inside the shower, and not even the water running cold and splashing against his curls were enough to rose him from dreams of red and black and Enjolras.

                                              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra bonus for those who pick all the brick references (I am trash)


	5. Chapter 5

When he woke up, his limbs were cold and stiff, and he was shivering all over. He coughed weakly, leaning on the wet wall to get to his feet after a few moments of confused sleepiness. He turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, producing a sickening wet sound and leaving wet footsteps all the way to his bedroom. He proceeded to remove his clothes and let them fall into a small damp pile on the floor, noticing in the process that his arms were mostly free from paint. He coughed again, searching for wearable clothes for his lunch with Enjolras.

                He didn’t even know what time it was, and had to look for his phone in the living room to discover. There was still two hours until the meeting with Enjolras, which made him relax a bit. Patiently choosing his cleanest clothes – man, he was in real need of doing laundry –, he set them on the top of his unmade bed, staring at them and trying to decide if they were good enough. He didn’t have a chance with Enjolras, but he had already caused enough bad impressions for a life time.

                He pushed the Montparnasse subject as far back into his head as he could. He didn’t want to spy on that group anymore, and felt pathetic for only being able to take two days of spying before giving up. But he couldn’t give up either, or he’d get his ass beat and lose his stash of morphine, which he couldn’t live without anymore.

                What he truly needed was to focus on one thing at the time. If he started to worry about all his problems at once – oh man – things wouldn’t exactly work out very well for him. For now, all he would worry about would be his lunch with Enjolras, and on how to look the man in the eye without letting all his lies and fakeness slip through.

                Entering his art room again wasn’t as difficult as he had thought it would be, if he was being honest. He only lingered in front of the open door – if felt so weird to see it opened – for a few seconds before stepping in, looking around and taking a deep breath. He had made a mess on the floor, as he vaguely remembered – dry ruby and gold were mixed in a spiral pattern, already dry. The portrait of Enjolras looked way more ethereal than he remembered doing, though, making the man look more like a magical, unattainable creature that he had first thought. He covered the canvas with a dusty fabric thrown on the floor, and left it there.

                He had nothing to do while he waited, TV still turned on in static. His entire apartment was dark as always, curtains drawn closed and allowing no natural light to sip through. The only source of light in the apartment came from the TV.

                He considered snorting a bit of morphine before going, but decided against it. Even though he was more used to it than to the Adderall, he didn’t want to risk making a scene again. He took a single sip of his beer instead.

                Half an hour before the meeting with Enjolras, Grantaire decided to leave the house, too overwhelmed by his boredom to stay there. It was dangerous to carelessly stroll on the streets these days – many people who had just wanted to go out for fresh air had been arrested for vagrancy – and, as much as Grantaire liked to take in the sight of a nearby park or even the brown and grey buildings that filled the neighborhood, he made his way to Enjolras’ place as fast as he could. If a police man marked someone, there was no arguing, as much innocent as the person was. And Grantaire wasn’t exactly innocent either, so that was a double risk.

                He passed three police patrols on his way to the Musain street. Since he had no mirrors in the house, he could only hope that he looked presentable enough not to be stopped by any of them.

                He arrived at Enjolras’ building fifteen minutes earlier than the hour they had combined, and after climbing the stairs to the third floor, merely stared at his door without knocking or making himself known. He could hear movement and voices inside, and decided not to announce himself until it was 1 p.m.

                But then the door suddenly burst open, and Grantaire found himself staring at Feuilly, clothes disheveled and sustaining a very messy bed hair. He blinked at Grantaire in confusion before greeting him with an embarrassed smile, excusing himself and practically running to the stairs. Enjolras’ head popped curiously on the front door, and he blushed when he saw Grantaire.

                “You’re early!”, Enjolras said, rest of his body appearing on the door. “Oh, come in!”, he invited, gesturing for Grantaire to step inside the apartment. He did, and Enjolras closed the door behind him.

                There was an uneasy feeling on Grantaire’s stomach, and he couldn’t understand it. He had figured that Enjolras and Feuilly had a thing since his first meeting, from the way Enjolras always blushed and looked all embarrassed whenever addressing the ginger. He supposed that having his suspicions confirmed was what was hurting him, for now he had a concrete confirmation that his chances with Enjolras were less than zero.

                “Grantaire? Are you listening to me?” Enjolras was asking, concerned frown on his face. He had been talking to Grantaire, but the latter hadn’t listened, too busy thinking – and scowling – at the image of Enjolras moaning Feuily’s name instead of his.

                “Sorry, I got distracted”, Grantaire apologized, looking genuinely embarrassed. “What did you say?”

                “I asked if you slept well”, Enjolras repeated patiently, giving him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Grantaire didn’t like that smile. He liked the other one, the genuine one.

                “Yeah, sure”, Grantaire responded automatically, shoulders stiffing and cramping as if a reminder of the crappy night of sleep he had had. “You?”, he asked out of politeness.

                “I’m afraid not”, Enjolras gave a tiny chuckle. “I had to stay up late because of Feuilly”.

                “Oh”, was all Grantaire managed to say, eyes lowering uncomfortably.

                “Are you alright?” Enjolras frowned again, and Grantaire put on the best smile he managed.

                “Yeah, sure”, he said. Inside, his heart was beating painfully.

                “Well, I didn’t finish lunch yet, I’m afraid”, Enjolras explained. “I fear you’ll have to wait a little bit, Feuilly was helping me with that”. Grantaire exhaled sharply through the nose. God, would he never stop talking about Feuilly? “But don’t worry, he had everything done, I’ll just have to heat it up. I’ve been told I’m a lousy cooker. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll be right back”.

                Without sparing Grantaire a second look, Enjolras disappeared into the kitchen, and Grantaire allowed his expression to relax. He could actually feel the corners of his mouth being pulled downwards in a grim expression that also bore sadness.

                Even though he knew he would never be with Enjolras, it felt bad to have it rubbed at his face. Before, he could fantasize, dream of an outcome in which he’d manage to leave morphine and Montparnasse behind to be with the leader. But now, why should he even bother?

                He noticed how organized Enjolras’ living room was, and how harshly it contrasted with Grantaire’s own. Actually, Enjolras had furniture that looked quite expensive, and a leather couch. Grantaire frowned. For the leader of a revolutionary group, Enjolras seemed to be quite rich.

                “Everything’s settled!”, he announced, appearing on the living room with two fuming plates that he placed on a dinner table by the windows. The curtains were drawn open – a sight Grantaire was unused to – and he could see the street outside. Grantaire sat by the table, waiting for Enjolras to return from the kitchen again. There was pasta on their plates, and Grantaire allowed himself to give the food a tiny smile. He hadn’t eaten proper pasta in a while.

                Enjolras returned with two cups and a bottle of wine, and there was a candle tucked into one of the cups. Grantaire frowned. Enjolras put one of the cups in front of Grantaire, pouring the wine inside it. He also put the candle between them and lighted it, finally sitting on his chair that was directly in front of Grantaire’s and watching him with expectation.

                Since Grantaire was an asshole who couldn’t keep his mouth shut, he had to make a joke out of the situation.

                “Is this a date?” he asked with a sarcastic smile, gesturing at the lit candle with his chin. He didn’t exactly expect Enjolras to blush and look away.

                “W-well… If you want it to be”, the leader shrugged, an unreadable look in his eyes that made Grantaire unsure whether he was serious or not, grabbing a forkful of pasta and shoving it unceremoniously in his mouth, as if he was using it as an excuse not to speak. Grantaire’s frown deepened.

                “Are you serious?” he asked, in a tone that didn’t sound quite right. “What about Feuilly?”. He would have never thought Enjolras was that kind of person. He actually thought he was a _virgin_ , for god’s sake.

                It was Enjolras’ time to frown.

                “What about him?”, he asked after swallowing the absurd amount of pasta he had shoved in his mouth.

                Grantaire scoffed quietly, blinking a few times before responding.

                “Aren’t you two…? Together?” Grantaire asked, mimicking Enjolras and eating the pasta. It tasted absurdly delicious, especially after months of consuming only snacks and junk food. But the fact that it had been Feuilly who cooked it made it taste sour in his tongue.

                Enjolras choked a bit on his pasta, taking a sip of his wine and whipping his mouth with the cloth on his lap before responding.

                “No”, he said, as if it was obvious. “No, no, of course not. He’s just a good friend. I mean, he is amazing, and attractive, and all his political ideals match mine perfectly, and he’s…”, he realized that Grantaire was staring, and came to a stop. “But no, he’s just a friend. He stayed over because when we finished preparations for the rally it was already past curfew”, Enjolras explained, even though he didn’t have to.

                “I see”, Grantaire said in a monotone, continuing to eat his pasta. Enjolras gave him a weird look, but didn’t know what else he could say on that matter.

                “How’s the pasta?”, he asked politely, and Grantaire nodded at the same time he resumed chewing.

                “Fantastic”, he said, not bothering to clean his mouth and staring at his plate instead of Enjolras.

                “I have some matters I want to discuss with you after lunch”, Enjolras announced, and it wasn’t anything Grantaire hadn’t expected. He had always known that this lunch was nothing but an excuse to talk – “About the logos”, he continued.

                “Sure”, Grantaire said between forkfuls, and only when Enjolras went completely silent he looked up at him. He was staring at Grantaire with sad, worried eyes, and the cynic couldn’t help but to get embarrassed, finally very self-aware of how fast he had been eating. He hadn’t noticed the constant growl in his stomach until Enjolras placed the plate in front of him, and then he must have been looking like a starving man attacking his meal. He blushed, finally picking the cloth Enjolras had placed beside his plate and cleaning his own mouth just like the leader had done, an excuse to hide part of his face from view. Enjolras kept staring, even as Grantaire took a sip of his wine – which was far lighter than the stuff he was used to drink, normally – and he couldn’t keep embarrassingly silent any longer. “What?” he asked Enjolras, no sharpness in his tone, just resigned curiosity.

                “For how long has this been going on?” Enjolras asked, stopping to eat altogether.

                “This what?” Grantaire frowned, continuing to eat – he was too hungry now – but way more politely than before.

                Enjolras sighed with tiredness, as if he was dealing with something that he didn’t want to. He gazed at his own intertwined hands for a few moments, as if in deep thought about what he was going to say, before speaking again.

                “I understand we are not close”, he said, looking at Grantaire deeply in the eye. This made the cynic’s heart sink enough in his chest for him to stop eating. He knew he and Enjolras weren’t close – how could they be? – but again, Grantaire was a man who didn’t like confirmation of his inner thoughts very much. “We have known each other for what, now? Two weeks?”, Enjolras continued. Grantaire merely shrugged. Enjolras hummed. “Yes. That is not enough to know a person”, he fell into deep thought again, moments of silence stretching into seconds that felt like a torturing eternity for Grantaire. “But… you are different from others who have gone to the ABC meetings. With all of them, I could tell they were spies straight away, but with you…”, Grantaire’s heart stopped, and he could feel all the blood from his face sinking to the bottom of his stomach. “I didn’t want to trust you, but I did for some reason. When you first argued with something I said, I was sure you were a double agent sent to spy on us. But Joly knows you for so long, and Jehan automatically liked you as soon as you stepped into the Musain. And as much as you proclaim to be a cynic, I do believe there is a sparkle of hope hidden somewhere inside you, I can see it when you look at me”, the blood returned to Grantaire’s face at full speed, making him blush. What was going on? “And why would they send a cynic, blatantly non-believer to spy on us? You’re _too_ obvious to be a double agent. Which is why I would like to officially welcome you to our group, especially after those outstanding logos you made for us”.

                “Thank you”, Grantaire quickly said, nervous words leaving his mouth.

                “And which is _why_ ”, Enjolras continued. “I allowed myself to worry about you. As a friend”.

                “Enjolras…”, Grantaire sighed.

                “Let me finish, please”, he interrupted. “I can tell you are going through something in your personal life right now. I understand if you are not comfortable to share that with me, since we barely know each other, but I believe it would be of your best interest to share with someone. You can’t keep it all to yourself. You’re endangering your own health, and not only that, but our group, too. I appreciate the effort you put into making those logos for us, but we cannot have you running like that on the streets again. If anyone tracks you down and associates you with our group, we could be in trouble. On the folder at the door of the Musain and the flyers we will distribute, there will be no hint to what the group is about. We nearly got ourselves arrested back when we meet at university, we can’t give in to that luxury again. We can’t raise any suspicions and have any more spies infiltrating in our group, or we will certainly be arrested or worse. You do understand that, right?”, he asked sympathetically.

                And of course, Grantaire was so, so stupid. For a man who didn’t hope, he seemed to hope a lot whenever the subject turned to Enjolras. Even though he knew it was literally impossible for him to be with the man, _ever_ , there was always a thin shred of hope sparkling inside him whenever Enjolras merely spoke to him, and how utterly pathetic was that? And for a second there, he allowed himself to believe that Enjorlas actually cared about him, worried about his wellbeing and wanted to offer a friendly shoulder in a time of need. For a millisecond, he considered telling Enjolras about the morphine and the alcohol and the pain. But that wasn’t what Enjolras was offering.

                Enjolras was asking him to stop acting like a fucking mad man and get himself together before Grantaire could get him and everyone he cared about killed.

                Enjolras had no idea that was exactly what Grantaire was doing anyway, whether he acted like a mad man or not.

                He suddenly realized that he had been silent for a long time, Enjolras staring at him with expectation in his eyes.

                “I understand”, Grantaire said, but despite his best efforts, the words still sounded bitter. He accompanied the answer with a smile full of sarcasm.

                “Please, do not get the wrong impression”, Enjolras added as if reading his thoughts. “I will still be here if you want to talk. I didn’t mean to patronize you”.

                Grantaire scoffed, smiling and continuing to eat the rest of his now cold pasta.

                “I said I understand”, he said, mouth full, and noticed that was a childish attempt of his subconscious to piss Enjolras off. Enjolras seemed unaffected, though.

                “Do you wish to share anything with me?” Enjolras offered, a nervous smile dancing in his lips. _Your bed_ , Grantaire thought, but didn’t say anything. “Any personal problem that may be upsetting you and you want to let out?”

                “I don’t need a therapist, Enjolras”, Grantaire answered, not looking the man in the eye. He finished his pasta and drank the rest of his wine before continuing. “And I don’t think you have the professional qualification to be mine even if you _wanted_ to”, he put a bitter emphasis on the verb want, as if trying to make Enjolras realize that he knew the truth behind his apparently caring words.

                Enjolras cared only for his revolution, nothing else. The only reason he was offering Grantaire help was because Grantaire’s mental state was endangering the discretion of his group.

                “Well”, Enjolras shrugged, defeated. “I will still be here if you need me”. He got up from his seat and retrieved the dishes, disappearing in the kitchen and returning empty handed. Grantaire secretly wished he had left the wine.

                “Can we talk about the logos now?” he asked, and Grantaire nodded, finally moving from his seat by the table and sitting beside Enjolras on the couch.

                They talked for a few more minutes, Grantaire taking notes of what changed Enjolras asked him to make on the design, and Enjolras explaining in a very detailed manner what he wanted the flyer to look like. In less than half an hour of talking about designs and ideas, they were done, and Grantaire had no more reason to stay at Enjolras’ house.

                “Well, I should get going”, Grantaire announced, even though he would sell his soul to stay if only Enjolras wanted him to.

                “Already?” Enjolras smiled sympathetically and Grantaire hated that. He hated that Enjolras was pretending to be his friend only to try and control him. “Let me walk you to the door”.

                They went silently, Grantaire folding the paper with the designs carefully and putting it inside the jacket of his pocket. Enjolras touched the doorknob but never twisted it, biting his lower lip in deep thought instead. Grantaire watched.

                “In how long can you get this ready?”, Enjolras asked with an interested frown.

                “That depends”, Grantaire shrugged, fingers twitching beside his legs. “If you have urgency, I can get it done by tomorrow night”.

                “Would it be too much to ask you to get it done by tomorrow afternoon?” Enjolras gave him a tiny smile, a smile Grantaire couldn’t say no to.

                “Anything for you, Apollo”, Grantaire shrugged, a playful smile appearing in his lips even though he felt like shit.

                “Then I would be able to invite you for lunch tomorrow, too”, Enjolras raised his shoulders the slightest bit, a nearly imperceptible blush appearing on his cheeks. “If you want”, he added.

                Grantaire stared in confusion at the blond, trying to read him. Why was Enjolras playing with him like that? Could he really be that oblivious to the point of not noticing Grantaire’s attraction for him, and if not, that mean to the point of taking advantage of it in exchange for cheap half-assed art?

                “You don’t need to pay for my art with food, Enjolras”, Grantaire chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Enjolras frowned, clearly offended.

                “Is that what you think I’m doing?”, he asked, a bit more aggressively than Grantaire had expected.

                “Well… isn’t it?”, it was Grantaire’s turn to frown.

                “Of course not”, Enjolras immediately responded. “If you want payment for your designs, it will certainly be arranged, just name your price and me and Combeferre will find a way to –“

                “I’m not charging you”, Grantaire interrupted, extremely confused. Enjolras stared back at him, the same look painted in his face.

                “And I wasn’t… I…”, he seemed confused for a second, going back to staring at his hands as he thought. Grantaire noticed he did that a lot. “I offered you lunch as a thank you, not as a payment”, he explained, arranging his thoughts eloquently. “If you want payment, you just need to tell me. Those designs you made are amazing enough for the Amis to raise some money to pay you. But I’m not… I’m not trying to buy you with food. I was just trying to show my thankfulness through this lunch, and you told me yourself yesterday that you haven’t been eating, so I thought this was a good opportunity. Sorry if I offended you”, he said, looking at Grantaire with sincerity. Grantaire, for once, was at a loss for words.

                “You… you haven’t”, he finally said, still confused.

                “It’s ok if you don’t want to have lunch”, Enjolras added, suddenly very embarrassed. “I was just trying to get to know you better, since you’re the only one in Les Amis that I’m not very close to. And I like being close to the people I care about”.

                And there it was again, one of the many phrases Enjolras told him on that evening that made Grantaire’s brain twist in confusion. After all, did or did not Enjolras care about him?!

                ???

                “You’ll have your logo by tomorrow afternoon”, Grantaire promised, feeling as embarrassed as Enjolras looked. “I’ll be here at lunchtime”.

                And then Enjolras smiled at him, truly smiled. It was that smile that Grantaire loved, that was so rare to appear, that made the tiny crinkles appear at the corner of his eyes and the dimples appear on either side of his cheek, and made his eyes sparkle and look like Grantaire was the most precious thing that Enjolras had ever seen. It made Grantaire feel whole, even if for a mere second, it made him feel like he could throw away all the booze and morphine in the world because he wouldn’t need that if he had Enjolras’ smile.

                “Alright!”, he said, sounding more excited than Grantaire had ever seen him. “If it’s ok with you, you can stay over until it’s meeting time and then we can go to the Musain together”, he added. “It’s becoming very unsafe to walk around the streets at evening, and I don’t know where you live, but I do believe I live closer to the café than you”, he joked. Enjolras lived two buildings away from the Musain.

                “Ok”, Grantaire said, managing a small smile at Enjolras. “See you at the same time tomorrow, then?”

                Enjolras nodded, and opened the door to Grantaire.

                “Thank you for all this”, Enjolras told him, gesturing at the pocket in which Grantaire had put the folded paper. “You’re helping us a lot”.

                Grantaire wanted the floor to open and swallow him, sudden guilt making him feel terrible. How could he be doing this? He was at Enjolras’ house, eating with him, promising to give him something while revealing important information about his group to his worst enemies. Grantaire didn’t deserve Enjolras’ sympathy. He didn’t deserve his kindness.

                “No problem, Apollo”, Grantaire said, noticing the way his voice sounded monotone. He really was the scum of the earth. “I think I’d better get going now, these flyers ain’t gonna design themselves”, he joked, giving Enjolras one last fake smile before going through the front door and down the corridor.

“Would you mind sending me a text when you get home?” Enjolras asked as soon as he turned his back to him. Grantaire stopped on his tracks. “Like I said, the streets are dangerous these days”. Grantaire was frozen in the same position for a few seconds before responding:

“Sure thing”, and then he was rushing down the hall. He could hear Enjolras shout something akin to “be safe!” behind him but preferred not to dwell on it. The more he thought about Enjolras, the more the guilt would consume him, and he didn’t have enough morphine to deal with that on the moment.

                Enjolras was a good person. Naïve and reckless, yes, but a good person. Grantaire liked him. For someone who had never fallen in love before, his feelings quickly shifted from lust to love in a time not even he would believe unless he was experiencing. How could a person who had never loved fall in love with a stranger so easily? He didn’t want just Enjolras’ body by now. He wanted him, he wanted to hear him speak impossible ideals of justice and equality and freedom, he wanted to argue with him just for the sake of it, just to see his brown twist in confusion and his nostrils flare in disappointment, he wanted to kiss him and be his, he wanted Enjolras to tell him how much he loved his art and how he cared and worried about Grantaire and how he was thankful for having Grantaire. He wanted to see that beautiful, outstanding smile appear on Enjolras’ face because of something he had said or done, and he wanted Enjolras to be happy.

                But what he kept forgetting was that Enjolras would eventually be unhappy and it would all be his fault.

                Damn, Enjolras would probably _die_ and his blood would be on Grantaire’s hands.

                He needed to do something to stop that, to prevent that from happening. He couldn’t stop giving information to Montparnasse, otherwise he’d stop receiving morphine and as much as he wanted to stop, he knew he couldn’t. Plus, Montparnasse knew where he lived, and everyone knew quite well what happened to those who betrayed the Patron-Minette’s trust.

                The only way to prevent Enjolras and his friends from dying would be to make them give up fighting for their cause. Leave the dreams of revolution behind and live their lives normally, safely. Grantaire would have to convince them to give up, and he knew there was no way to do that without making Enjolras unavoidably hate him.

                But still, he thought that being hated by Enjolras was better than watching Enjolras die because of him.

                As he got to his apartment, he noticed there was something wrong. The front door was slightly ajar, as if someone had broken in. Immediately alert, Grantaire slowly and silently pushed the door open, peeking inside before stepping in. The living room was dark as always, curtains drawn close, but the TV had been turned off. With the lack of static, the apartment sounded way more silent than it should.

                Then there were rough hands pulling his arms back and holding him, and Grantaire yelled in surprise, trying to free himself to no avail. The hands were strong and pulled his arms hard enough to make his shoulders and muscles ache, and he kicked and tossed as he attempted to get away from the aggressor.

                “Wow, you took long to get home”, a silky voice said calmly, almost curiously, and Grantaire froze, breathing quickly and with difficulty. His eyes were wide, searching for Montparnasse in the darkness. “Where were you?”

                “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” Grantaire panted. He sounded more frightened than he would have liked. He could hear Montparnasse chuckle.

                “Is this how you treat your guests now?” he asked, fake-surprise filling his tone. “I should have known that spending time with those revolutionary bitches would end up getting you all messed up”. He could hear the footsteps approaching and the tingling of the broken glass that was still scattered on the floor of his living room. Suddenly, Montparnasse’s hand was caressing his face softly, almost gently, and there in the darkness, being held back by a stranger, Grantaire almost couldn’t suppress the urge to scream for help. But he was too terrified to be able to do anything. “Aren’t you going to tell me where you were? I’m curious”. There was no request in Montparnasse’s voice.

                Grantaire stayed silent. Sending texts about the Amis to Montparnasse was something. The words didn’t actually leave his mouth, he just typed them instead, there was no way for Montparnasse to tell whether he was lying or not, and he felt less guilty. Now, in person, saying Enjolras’ name out loud in the dark for Montparnasse to hear seemed like a heresy.

                “Babet”, was all Montparnasse said after Grantaire didn’t respond, and then there was a punch, two punches, three, four, five punches against his torso, so suddenly and harshly that it sent him doubling over himself despite of the hands holding him back. His stomach churned and he ached, and he did his best not to throw up. A low groan escaped his throat instead.

                “You see, Grantaire”, Montparnasse said casually, slow and calm footsteps resonating around Grantaire, but he was too confused and blind to see where the man was. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship over this. We had a deal”, there was smooth hands on his face again. He tried to lean away, to remove himself from Montparnasse’s fingers, but as soon as he moved the soothing fingers became tight claws that pinched his cheeks together and held his head in place. “You know what happens to people who break the deals they make with me”, he continued, so close to Grantaire that he could feel the man’s breath against his cheek. “So I’ll ask you again. Where were you?”

                Grantaire panted a few times, fingers still squeezing his face. There was no way out of this and he knew it.

                “With Enjolras”, Grantaire said, voice muffled. Montparnasse retrieved his hand – whether from surprise or satisfaction, he couldn’t tell – and Grantaire’s head dropped, hanging low. The only thing sustaining his body upwards was the man’s – probably Gueulemer’s – arms holding him back. “He wanted to discuss the logos I told you I’d make for him. So I met him at the Musain for lunch”. It was partially a lie, but if he let Montparnasse know Enjolras’ address, then the leader would be certainly doomed. Grantaire still had a chance, even if slight, of saving him.

                Montparnasse’s sharp laugh removed Grantaire from his pain induced trance and he meekly looked up, trying to find him in the dark. This time, no one punched him, but a hand slapped him and he had no doubts it had been Montparnasse’s.

                “You’re such a fucking bitch”, he said with disdain, and Grantaire allowed his head to drop again. “I should have thought twice before sending you of all people to spy on them. I should have known that you wouldn’t be able to keep this cock inside your filthy pants”, he grabbed Grantaire’s crotch with enough strength to hurt, and the cynic closed both legs, trying to escape the grasp. Montparnasse retrieved his hand and cleaned it – even though it wasn’t dirty – on the front of Grantaire’s shirt, a gesture meant to highlight his repulse. “Don’t tell me you’re crushing on that blonde leader?”

                “I’m not crushing on anyone”, Grantaire said, voice muffled by humiliation and anger. “I’m doing what you told me to do. Getting to know more about them”.

                “Babet”, Montparnasse instructed again, taking a step back. Babet did no effort to spare the already bruised torso, throwing punches at him again until Grantaire was coughing and gasping for air. It was a miracle he hadn’t thrown up yet, and he was pretty sure he had heard a rib crack. This time, Gueulemer stopped sustaining him and he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, head colliding with it harshly. “Lie to me again, and I’ll have Babet break your useless teeth”, Montparnasse purred, voice silky as always, crouching down beside Grantaire’s twitching body as if to be heard clearly. “Let’s see how the little leader will like you then”.

                “Fuck off”, Grantaire managed to groan, trying to crawl his way into a sitting up position and failing. “I told you, I’m just doing what you asked”.

                Montparnasse pulled Grantaire’s body back into the floor effortlessly with a single finger. Grantaire just lied there, staring at him in the dark, breathing pattern difficult. Montparnasse’s finger traced a soothing pattern until his throat, until his entire hand was resting on the top of Grantaire’s Adam’s apple.

                And then it started to pressure Grantaire’s throat down until he was chocking for air, hands grasping at Montparnasse’s and struggling for air.

                “ _Asked?_ ” Montparnasse repeated, frowning and smiling at the same time, as if Grantaire had just made a ridiculous joke. If it hadn’t been for the hand strangling Grantaire, it would have looked like a casual conversation. “No, no, _Capital R_ ”, he spat the nickname with something akin to disgust in his tone. “You’re doing what I ordered you to do”.

                With that the hand in his neck disappeared and Grantaire greedily breathed the air in, aware of the chocking sounds that he was making. Montparnasse retrieved something from his jacket’s pocket and placed it inside Grantaire’s own as he still struggled for air.

                “Don’t forget who your loyalty truly lies with”, Montparnasse told him, patting the spot in which he had put the content of his pocket with carefulness. “And don’t make me have to refresh your memory like today”.

                He must have given Babet and Gueulemer some sort of sign or gesture that Grantaire didn’t see through his dizzy haze, but suddenly his front door opened and the sharp light of the building’s corridor broke in, making Grantaire’s eyes sting. He closed them tightly, turning his head away from the source of light.

                “And remember, Grantaire”, Montparnasse whispered so that only Grantaire could hear him, a smile on his rosy lips. He was leaning against Grantaire’s ear, breath hot against Grantaire’s skin, and he shivered. “You’re nothing but the scum of the earth”.

                He heard footsteps – three sets of footsteps – walking away until they were no longer audible, but the door was left open, light still breaking into the apartment. Despite of the sharp pain in his ribs, he managed to get to his knees and creep to the front door, slamming it close. His apartment – his darkness – was the only place in which he could be himself without worrying about anything else. To have the light to creep in uninvited like that was offending and made him want to cry more than the pain in his torso did.

                Which reminded him that he was in _so much pain_. It was as if his ribs had been set on fire. He didn’t think anything was broken, just badly bruised, and yet he was afraid of breathing too deeply. Grantaire never dealt well with pain. That was one of the reasons he took morphine.

                For a millisecond, he considered calling Joly for help. But then there would be too much explaining to do, and if any Ami ever found out that he had been giving the Police information about them through a criminal organization, he would be banned from their lives forever. And Grantaire wasn’t sure if he could live without Enjolras yet.

                He knew he would have to, eventually. But again, Grantaire didn’t deal well with pain. He always pushed it farther and farther to the future so that he could enjoy the present, until he created a snowball that developed into an avalanche and buried him irretrievably.

                He got to his feet with a groan and much difficulty, limping his way blindly across the dark living room until he reached the couch. His phone buzzed inside his pocket and he didn’t think before pulling it out, seeing that the screen had been a bit cracked from Babet’s blows. At the same time the phone was removed from the pocket, the package that Montparnasse had put in there fell to his lap.

                Grantaire realized it was morphine.

                Montparnasse was playing games with him. The beating hadn’t been the only reminder of on whom Grantaire should put his loyalty on.

                He opened the text he had just received with shaky hands that could barely hold the phone.

**From: Enjolras (17:01) Hey R, are you home yet?**

                He covered his eyes with one hand, ignoring the way it made his ribs ache and taking a deep breath. He hated himself so much for doing that to Enjolras.

                He clearly worried about Grantaire’s well-being – or, most likely, about whether or not Grantaire would still be alive to do him flyers and add to the cause – and there he was, lying and deceiving Enjolras like the scum he was. He could barely find the courage in himself to respond to the text, but the rational part still inside him told him that it would be cruel of him to keep Enjolras worried.

                And plus, if he didn’t answer, Enjolras would ask questions later and he wasn’t in the mood to come up with a story.

**To: Enjolras (17:05) Yeah, sorry, I forgot to text you**

**To: Enjolras (17:06) I just got in actually**

                He allowed his throbbing head to lean back against the couch and closed his eyes, swallowing dry through his hoarse throat, until his phone buzzed again.

**From: Enjolras (17:09) Good! See you tomorrow at lunch, then.**

**To: Enjolras (17:09) See ya**

                Grantaire set the phone aside on the couch, staring at the offending package of morphine in his lap instead. He still had a small stash hidden away for emergencies, but with the growing ache in his ribs that came with his every breath and movement, he couldn’t resist taking the drug. As he lined it up with a razor blade, his subconscious provided: _isn’t this exactly what Montparnasse wants? For you to get more and more dependent on the drug he gives you until you have absolutely no way out of this madness? Until you’re completely unable to free yourself from him and his jobs?_

                But then the rational part of his mind provided: _who fucking cares you’re in pain and the morphine will make the pain go away_

                At the same time an unknown part of his mind told him: _with every snort of morphine you take you get farther and farther away from any chance you could have with Enjolras_

                After staring for what felt like ages at the lined powder on his dirty coffee table, barely illuminated from whatever light managed to slip through his closed curtains, Grantaire bent over on the couch and snorted the morphine.

                -

                Later, on the middle of the night, as he strolled across his dirty and messy apartment, Grantaire found himself standing in the middle of his art room, staring fixedly at the canvas he had painted of Enjolras.

                Someone – he knew who – had thrown most of his red paint on the canvas, covering Enjolras’ face partially and making it look like sprayed blood (Grantaire wasn’t sure if that was just his guilty imagination or if it actually looked like that. He ended up deciding it was a mix of both options). The canvas had also been cut by a knife on the region where Enjolras’ throat had been painted, an ugly incision teared into its fabric. If the red paint hadn’t ruined it enough, the tear certainly did.

                Grantaire fell to his knees crying, hands sustaining most of his weight until he was lying down entirely on the floor, sobbing helplessly. He ended up falling asleep like that, curled in fetal position on the dusty floor of his makeshift art studio.

                                                                                              -


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up to a throbbing head and to the sensation of dried blood on his upper lip.

                From where he was lying on the hard floor, he could see his ruined painting. Though he didn’t want to look at it, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He spent what felt like hours here, muscles sore and head aching, staring blankly at the way his expensive red paint contrasted with the pale tone of Enjolras’ skin on the canvas. The way the teared fabric of Enjolras’ throat produced the slightest of shadows on the portrait.

                When he finally managed to stop looking at the canvas, getting up seemed more difficult than ever. But he was well aware that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life lying on the ground, as much as he wanted to. To give up was what Montparnasse expected of him, and even if he didn’t give a shit about what the man thought about him, he still had a small sense of self-preservation buried somewhere deep within him that didn’t want to have his ass kicked again. If the previous night had been just a warning, he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he actually stopped giving Montparnasse what he wanted.

                There was definitely no other way out of this situation. He would have to make the Amis give up on their cause. He was too much of a coward to risk facing the Patron-Minette’s rage. And he’d rather have Enjolras hate him for speaking up to him than to have the man die.

                He wouldn’t be the first person to hate Grantaire, anyways.

                Just thinking about meeting Enjolras was exhausting, no matter how much he liked the leader. His torso was still aching – certainly bruised – and his muscles were sore from spending the night on the floor. He wouldn’t be able to leave the house without a bit of morphine, and talking to Enjolras while high didn’t seem like the best of ideas. Plus, looking the man in the eye while doing everything that he was doing was getting more and more difficult. Guilt and anger – at himself, at Montparnasse, at the human race – flooded him whenever he looked at Enjolras, because how could he possibly claim to love him and betray him like that?

                It didn’t sound possible. Maybe it wasn’t love. Grantaire had probably fooled himself into thinking that he was capable of feeling something as pure and noble as love, when it actually had been the filthy, dirty lust that seemed to be the only thing that he was ever capable of feeling. He had fooled himself, he had been played by his own mind. He was nothing but the scum of the earth, incapable of even loving a good and righteous man. Enjolras was everything that he lacked, everything that he ached to be. Damn, he probably didn’t even lust for Enjolras. He probably just envied him.

                He hated himself a little bit more for that.

                Grantaire tried to convince himself to get up from the floor several times, over and over. It was like a mind battle against himself, part of him wanting to stay even though there were no more comfortable positions for him to lie at and the other part trying to urge him to at least go to the couch, where he would be nearer to his phone and then be able to postpone the meeting with Enjolras.

                (Postpone to when, though? When would he ever be able to look Enjolras in the eye without wanting to bury himself under a ton of dirt?)

                He ended up getting to his feet and limping his way out of the art room, but the moment he made that decision and the walk to the living room were a blur in his mind. It was as if he had been at the art room in a second, blinked his eyes and suddenly found himself at the couch of his living room.

                The TV had been turned off, and the absence of static bothered him. Still, it didn’t bother him enough to actually get up again and turn it on.

                He grabbed his phone and dialed Enjolras’ number, taking advantage of the scrap of courage that had made him get up from the floor and that still lingered inside him. He tapped his fingers against his own leg as he waited for Enjolras to pick up.

                Just as Enjolras’ angelical voice greeted him with a confused “hello?”, Grantaire immediately cursed himself for calling the man instead of texting. Surely his hands were too shaky for him to type properly, but still… it would be better than a phone call. Grantaire hated phone calls. His heart started thumping madly inside his chest, mouth suddenly dry and mind going completely blank. His palms became damp with sweat and his breathing pattern increased audibly. He was frozen at the spot, and all because Enjolras had picked up his call and said hello.

                If that wasn’t love, then what was it?

                _Probably abstinence_ , the sarcastic part of his brain provided, at the same time Enjolras said, worry clear in his tone:

                “Grantaire, are you there? Are you ok?”

                “Uh, yeah, sorry”, Grantaire forced himself to answer, voice forcefully lighthearted.

                “Is something wrong? It’s five in the morning”, Enjolras provided, still confused. Grantaire muttered a curse under his breath, taking the phone away from his ear to check the time. Shit. He should have thought this through. He should have thought better before recklessly calling Enjolras like that, but as always, he had to screw everything up, didn’t he? Fuck. His body was too achy and his mind was too sluggish for him to compute things properly. There was no way out of this now. He couldn’t exactly hang up on Enjolras, he would have to continue this conversation naturally as if calling the object of his affections at five in the morning had been Grantaire’s first intention.

                “Sorry”, Grantaire said with honesty. “I just… I think I came down with something, and I couldn’t sleep”, another lie. How could he live with himself, being such a terrible, fake person? “So I decided to call you to maybe postpone our lunch? I’d hate to sneeze all over your house. I didn’t even check the time before calling, I’m really sorry”, he added, and at least that part was true. He really was sorry for bothering Enjolras like that.

                “Oh, no problem!”, Enjolras said, and even if his voice still sounded sleepy, he somehow managed to add more vivacity into it. “We can reschedule. Do you want me to ask Joly to step by your place?”

                “What? Why?”, Grantaire frowned, confused. His head still throbbed.

                “Because of… your cold?” Enjolras said, confused.

                “Oh!”, Grantaire said, heart beating faster and mentally cursing himself for being such an idiot. “No, there’s no need for that. I’m not that bad, it’s just a little cold. I just don’t think I’ll be able to get your designs ready by tomorrow, or today, I don’t even know anymore”.

                “Don’t worry about it then”, Enjolras told him patiently. “Just get it done whenever you’re feeling better. But since it’s not very serious, will you still be able to attend to today’s meeting? I’d really value your presence there”.

                Shit. What could he say? It was his own fault, he did tell Enjolras that it was just a little cold. He didn’t want to raise any suspicions by telling the man he wouldn’t be able to attend.

                Plus, he wasn’t quite sure what Montparnasse would do to him if he missed another report. His ribs throbbed painfully as if a reminder of the man’s lack of boundaries, and since Grantaire was a pathetic coward, he knew he would have to go to this meeting whether he wanted to or not.

                “Yeah”, Grantaire said, voice suddenly raspy. His throat felt sore and dry all of a sudden, and he wondered if that way his sick mind’s way of coping with the lie he had told Enjolras. “I’ll be there”. There was a small pause in which he tried to muster some kind of courage. “Sorry about the designs”, he added. Somehow, it felt as if he was apologizing for something more than just the designs, something he wouldn’t dare to tell Enjolras out loud.

                “Oh, don’t worry about it”, Enjolras told him, and Grantaire could picture him smiling as he said the words. “Just focus on getting better, ok? Are you taking any meds?”

                Grantaire chocked on thin air, taken aback by Enjolras’ question. The leader must have clearly thought that the coughing was due to his cold, for he said a barely audible “are you ok?” that was filled with concern.

                “Yeah, yeah”, Grantaire managed to say, voice hoarse and hoping that his answer suited both questions without having to provide further explanation. “I think I better go now”, Grantaire said, even though listening to Enjolras’ voice soothed him more than any drug could. He didn’t want to hang up, but if he allowed himself to talk to Enjolras for too long, he would end up burying himself in lies and made up stories that would be so thin and shallow that would crumble in no time. “You’d better get back to sleep, I’ll try to get some too”.

                “Alright. See you later at the meeting, then”, Enjolras provided. Before Grantaire could take the phone away from his own ear and finish the call, Enjolras added: “Oh, and Grantaire?”

                “Yes?”, he said, heart thumping madly inside his chest. He didn’t know why.

                “Don’t forget to eat, ok?”

                He couldn’t help but to snort a humorous laugh, amused by Enjolras. This man barely knew him and already seemed to worry about Grantaire more than anyone ever had in his entire life. If anything, it only increased whatever he felt for the man.

                Grantaire was really pathetic, wasn’t he? He would sell his soul for the slightest bit of positive attention. A single kind word or glance from Enjolras was enough to make him paint illegal portraits of the man and shove his hand down his pants to touch himself. He was disgusting. He was pathetic. He was scum.

                Even if what he felt for Enjolras was love, Enjolras didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve someone as fucked up as Grantaire. He deserved something better, someone who could be sure of what they felt and give him all the good things he truly deserved. And even if Enjolras could spare Grantaire the tiniest scrap of affection, Grantaire would only be dirtying the man. Enjolras was clearly a virgin, and Grantaire didn’t want to be the one to take away his purity with his filthy hands. He didn’t want to defile Enjolras.

                “Ok”, he finally said, after a long time of silence. Enjolras seemed content.

                “Good night, R”, he said, and the use of the nickname sent a twisting sensation to Grantaire’s gut. All of a sudden, he wanted to cry again.

                “Good night, Apollo”, he said in return, finishing the phone call. He didn’t set the phone aside this time. He kept it in hand, almost expecting someone to text or call him.

                No one did.

                Eventually, the pain in his torso became too overwhelming and he couldn’t take it anymore. It was as if he was trying to push himself to his limit, see how long he could endure pain without recurring to the morphine. But Grantaire had never been a courageous man, and he never dealt well with pain, physical or emotional. He sat for half an hour on his old couch before picking the package that Montparnasse had given him after the beating – he hated himself for that and stared at the plastic bag as if it was offensive. He lined the powder on the dirty coffee table and inhaled it with only a bit of difficulty, nostrils burning and ribs aching when he bent down. Only then he remembered the dried blood that had coated his upper lip, and limped his way to the bathroom to clean it off. He should probably take a shower, too, but just the thought of it made him feel heavy. He didn’t have the heart to do it. Instead, he grabbed his phone and as much cans of beer as he could carry and went to his bedroom. He was still aching all over and his head was still throbbing; the morphine hadn’t kicked in yet. He knew he had developed a resistance to it, but also knew that if he snorted more on that day, he would run out of it soon and then he would have to ask Montparnasse for more.

                He didn’t want to ask Montparnasse for anything anymore. He didn’t want to see the man’s face ever again, even if he knew that that was practically impossible.

                No, the small amount of morphine he had snorted and his beer would have to be enough to dull the pain for now. Plus, he needed to quit being such a pussy; that hadn’t even been the worst beating he had ever taken. He would be fine in one day or two, and then he’d be able to go back to whatever he used to call a routine before.

                As much as he hated it, he depended on Montparnasse. He couldn’t go through a withdrawal at this point of his life, he was too afraid of it and Montparnasse would kill him if he betrayed him and stopped providing the information he wanted.

                _But isn’t Enjolras worth it?_ , a stubborn part of his brain insisted.

                Instead of thinking of an answer to that question, he chugged down the rest of his beer, set an alarm on his phone and turned on his less hurt side to fall into a dreamless sleep.

                                                                                              -

                The annoying beeping of his phone’s alarm pulled him out of the pleasant darkness of unconsciousness, making him groan as he searched blindly for the phone and tried to turn it off. As the sound of the alarm was cut off, he lied back on the bed, ribs aching but not as much as before. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn’t eaten all day, closing his eyes in tiredness and contempt at himself.

                When he finally got up from the bed – twenty minutes after the alarm rung, ten minutes before the ABC meeting – he brushed his teeth (he was well aware of the reek of alcohol on his mouth) and grabbed an apple on his way out of the apartment. He forgot his phone on the bed, but it didn’t matter. No one would look for him anyway, and he only sent Montparnasse his reports when he was back home after the meeting.

                He arrived at the Musain just ten minutes late, but that was enough to make Enjolras send him a disapproving glare as soon as he entered, since the sound of the door bell ringing made a lot of heads turn towards Grantaire. But as soon as the cynic’s eyes met the leader’s, Enjolras’ gaze softened, as if he had suddenly remembered about Grantaire’s alleged cold. Grantaire nodded at him, and walked to the farthest seat possible from the rest of the group. Joly gave him a poorly hidden hurt look, and Grantaire pretended he didn’t see it. Joly was a doctor and Grantaire was still limping despite his best efforts to hide it. He would notice that there was something wrong and would ask questions that Grantaire wouldn’t be able to answer.

                The truth was that Grantaire hated lying. He was bad at it, and it gave him more anxiety than he was willing to deal with. The only reason he did it was because he was too much of a pathetic loser to do something about the Montparnasse situation, and ended up all tangled up in his web of lies and deceit. He was too emerged in this world of lies to be able to get out unpunished now, whether by Montparnasse or by the Amis.   

                He was nothing, really. He was _nothing_. The Patron-Minette was only using him and he was just another of their many pawns. He wasn’t naïve enough to think himself as anything else to them. The Amis thought of him as their friend, even though he was a bloody liar that was betraying them and giving their information in exchange for morphine and a couple spare coins. He was a disgrace. He was alone in the world, and he deserved to be. Actually, he didn’t even deserve to exist. Enjolras and his friends would be better off without him.

                He was so caught up in his self-loathing thoughts that he barely heard Enjolras’ speech. It had been something about gay rights on Charles X’s dictatorship, and Grantaire couldn’t help but to roll his eyes at Enjolras’ naivety. He wasn’t ready to have Enjolras hating him just yet, but deep down he knew it was the only way. The only way to save the Amis would be to make them give up on this stupid cause, and if hating Grantaire was the only possible outcome to the whole situation, then so be it.

                “Does anyone want to add anything before we move to the next subject?”, Enjolras asked as he resumed his speech. The Amis shook their heads, everyone agreeing with Enjolras.

                Grantaire let out a sigh. He wished he had gone to the lunch with Enjolras; at least that way he would have been able to enjoy one last day of friendship and politeness with Enjolras before he had to do this. He was so used to this – becoming friends with someone and then inevitably making the person hate him for being obnoxious – that he wouldn’t have felt guilty were it not for his affection for Enjolras. Still, there was no other way out for someone as coward as him. He cleared his throat more loudly than he had to – it sent a stab of pain across it for some reason – and made all heads turn towards him. Ignoring the twisting of his stomach and the pace of his heart, he said, looking at Enjolras straight in the eye:

                “I wonder if you know you’re getting them all killed?”

                Enjolras stared at him for a couple of seconds, confusion and what looked to be like hurt mixing in his gaze for what lasted the blink of an eye before going back to the stoic façade he always wore during meetings.

                “Pardon me?”, he answered, doing his best not to sound as angry as he probably felt. Grantaire didn’t know him for exactly long, but he had observed ( ~~admired~~ ) him for long enough to realize that he was clearly trying to hide his true feelings.

                “Let’s be honest here”, Grantaire laughed obnoxiously, the sound of his own voice sending disgusted shivers down his spine. He hated himself for doing that, for the humiliation he was about to bring upon Enjolras, but it was the only way. “You can’t actually think that this plan is going to work. This is all doomed to fail, you’re all just too caught up in your schoolboy excitement to see that. And even if, miraculously, you manage to overthrow Charles with ten people, then what? You can’t actually think that things are going to change. This world has been through hundreds of revolutions, and if any of those had been any good, we wouldn’t be where we are right now. Human race is doomed to suffer until there is no longer a human race”.

                Enjolras merely stared at him, fuming. He looked betrayed, but Grantaire didn’t have much time to feel guilty about it because it was Combeferre who answered him.

                “You are talking through a very pessimistic spectrum”, he said, adjusting his glasses through pushing them up the bridge of his nose and straightening himself on his seat beside Enjolras. He looked as calm and composed as always. “You accuse us of being too idealistic but you’re standing on the extreme opposite of the graph. If we want to succeed, we must find balance between extreme idealism and extreme pessimism. Realism is the only way for our group’s success, and there is nothing unrealistic about our pursuits as you claim. Making this protest is a way to raise awareness to other people that they are not alone, and with enough support to our cause, we can and we will overthrow Charles –“

                “Except you won’t”, Grantaire interrupted, and he realized that was impolite of him but he didn’t care. He couldn’t give up now, and being a toxic ball of pessimism was what he did best in life. He didn’t even care about all the eyes on him. “It’s not a matter of pessimism. If we lived in a perfect world, I’d totally shake hands with you guys and follow you through a rainbow bridge into a better future filled with liberty and justice. But we don’t. We live in a shitty world filled with selfish people who won’t. Follow you. If you count on them to support you, you will all end up dead. People ache for freedom, but not enough to actually fight for it”, he paused for a second, suddenly aware of the parallel that formed with his situation with Enjolras. He ached for the man, but still, it wasn’t enough for Grantaire to fight his addiction for him. If only he had the necessary bravery to do so, he wouldn’t have to make Enjolras hate him like this and maybe he could even dare to follow him into his early grave. He looked at Enjolras, whose face was red and whose eyes were sparkling with anger. His heart tightened in his chest, but he forced himself to turn his face to Combeferre. “And this world you’re fighting for is utopic”, he continued as if he hadn’t paused. His voice had grown hoarse, but he needed to keep talking. “ _If the world were a paradise of luxury and ease, a land flowing with milk and honey, where every Jack obtained his Jill at once and without any difficulty, men would either die of boredom or hang themselves; or there would be wars, massacres, and murders; so that in the end mankind would inflict more suffering on itself than it has now to accept at the hands of Nature_ ”, he quoted. “There is no practical way you can change the world, because humanity tends to aim for what it cannot have. Give a man war and they will fight for peace. Give a man peace and they will start wars. It’s too late for you to change that; it’s always been like this. You’ll get yourself and your friends killed for a world that will only betray your ideals and go back to doing horrible things to each other out of boredom as soon as you’re gone and forgotten”. The last phrase was directed to Enjolras, gaze not leaving the man afterwards the words left his mouth. He knew that was a low blow, but if that made Enjolras quit, then so be it. He just needed the man to… give up.

                Enjolras stared at him for a long time, just like everybody else in the room. Joly’s eyes were wide and fixed on Grantaire, but Enjolras was staring at him with nothing but a disdainful scowl.

                “I don’t understand you”, Enjolras finally said, sounding _disgusted_. Nothing that Grantaire didn’t deserve, really, but it was a confirmation of one of his worst fears. A faint memory of Enjolras smiling at him sparkled in his mind, but it wasn’t enough to make him feel any better about this. “I thought you would try to help us. You offered to make designs to our cause and you had great ideas for them. And now you’re just telling me everything we stand for is useless and that we’ll die for nothing?”, he scoffed. Combeferre looked apprehensive. If Grantaire was being honest, he had expected Enjolras to be angrier. Now, he just looked… upset. “What happened to change your mind?”

                And there it was, another unescapable situation from which Grantaire would have to lie his way out. He couldn’t understand. How was it possible that Enjolras always pressured him to tell the truth, even if he was clueless about all Grantaire’s lies?

                “I opened my eyes”, Grantaire answered, the words sounding hollow and fake to his own ears. “C’mon, Apollo. Everyone knows that this is hopeless, even you. Why can’t y’all just go back to your homes and live your lives peacefully? There’s no way you’ll get out alive!”

                “I’d rather die than to watch my people suffer! I’d rather fail than not try at all!”, Enjolras immediately refuted, frowning as if he didn’t believe Grantaire. He took a step towards the cynic in his anger, and Grantaire got to his feet as if to challenge him. He and Enjolras were almost the same height, which meant they were eye to eye now, faces mere inches away from each other and tension growing exponentially between them. If Grantaire leaned the slightest bit forward, their lips could touch, but that was hardly the most appropriate moment.

                “Why are you willing to sacrifice yourself for people who don’t even know you?” Grantaire asked, sounding as if he thought Enjolras was a mad man. “Why do you want to die and kill your friends so badly?”

                Grantaire hadn’t expected Enjolras to slap him in the face.

                It wasn’t a very hard slap, maybe Enjolras had held back in the last moment, because it barely even burned Grantaire’s cheek, but still, the sharp contact of Enjolras’ palm with his face triggered something inside Grantaire’s head and he flinched, head turned away from Enjolras’ view and neck exposed to him instead. He breathed audibly through his mouth, trying to keep his composure before he could break down in front of all of these people. Images of a grunting Babet half-hidden by the shadows of his dark apartment throwing punches at him flooded his head, and even if Enjolras’ slap didn’t resemble that aggression in the slightest, he still had to take in a deep, shaky breath and blink his eyes several times before finally turning his head to Enjolras again.

                Clear regret and guilt were carved into Enjolras’ expression, but his eyes were still as angry as before. His hand was still outstretched midair, frozen in surprise, and he was opening and closing those rosy lips of his as if trying to say something but failing to do so. He blushed, finally lowering his arm completely, and Grantaire merely stared at him without knowing what to do or say.

                “I am sorry”, Enjolras finally said, sounding sincere. All the Amis were staring uncomfortably. “That was uncalled for and I shouldn’t have recurred to aggression”.

                “It’s fine, _Apollo_ ”, Grantaire said, mustering all the sarcasm he could in his tone. Enjolras’ guilt disappeared at this, giving place to annoyance.

                “If… If you didn’t put so much effort in being this aggravating, this wouldn’t have happened!” Enjolras said, exasperation filling his tone.

                “I’m sorry, are you victim blaming me?” Grantaire asked sarcastically. Enjolras’ face grew red.

                “Why are you even here, Grantaire?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. “If you don’t believe in our cause and you think so little of me to the point of claiming I want my friends to die, why are you here? Why aren’t you home drinking your life away as you always seem to be doing?”

                And ok, that was a low blow. But he couldn’t exactly blame Enjolras for that, could he? Now they were both even on the whole low blow thing. Instead of letting the hurt that Enjolras’ words sent through his heart, he threw his head back, laughing. It was an obnoxious, ugly sound but he didn’t care. Enjolras’ opinion of him was already ruined, it wasn’t a stupid laugh that would make the man like Grantaire less.

                Before Grantare could answer Enjolras’ question though, the words died in his tongue as he noticed the leader was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. The fake smile died on Grantaire’s face as a frown replaced it, trying to figure out what had happened to make Enjolras look at him like that.

                “What?” Grantaire asked, a bit more aggressively than he had intended.

                “Grantaire…”, Enjolras said, and his tone contrasted so sharply with his previous one that Grantaire’s frown deepened. The leader’s voice was soft and patient, similar to the tone he used to talk to Grantaire at the lunch or at the early phone call. He raised a hand to Grantaire’s neck, fingers lingering above the skin without touching it, as if he was afraid to hurt the cynic. “Who did this?” he asked, looking at Grantaire with seriousness and worry. Grantaire’s heart stopped.

                “W-who did what?” he asked, swallowing dry.

                “Are you kidding me?” Enjolras asked, angry again, but nowhere as angry as before. “Are you being…?”, Enjolras looked around, noticing that all the Amis were still watching the scene before them. He stopped himself before he could continue the phrase, as if he didn’t want to put Grantaire into a hard place. “Can we talk in private?”

                Grantaire bit his lower lip. He knew no good would come from this conversation, but he nodded anyway. It was always hard for him to say no to Enjolras.

                “If you will excuse us for a moment”, Enjolras announced with more politeness than necessary, giving Combeferre a nod before leading Grantaire to the backroom of the Musain. Entering it again after the last incident made Grantaire feel uneasy, especially with Enjolras on his heels and that worried look on his face. The cynic took advantage when Enjolras turned on his back to close the door and cleaned the sweat away from his hands on the sides of his paint-stained jeans.

                Enjolras turned back to him, a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there ever before.

                And then Grantaire realized. It wasn’t softness.

                It was pity.

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras started, voice low and worried. Grantaire hated both Enjolras and himself on that moment. “Are you alright?”

                “Of course I am alright”, Grantaire immediately responded, looking at the tip of Enjolras’ nose instead of meeting his eyes.

                “Do you want to talk about this?” Enjolras asked, patiently. Grantaire frowned again.

                “Talk about what, Enjolras?” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras took a step closer, but still kept a respectful distance between them.

                “About the huge hand-shaped bruise around your neck”, Enjolras explained, and Grantaire’s heart skipped a bit.

                Fuck Montparnasse.

                Also, fuck Grantaire for not having mirrors in the house.

                He didn’t think that Montparnasse’s hand would have left a mark, and he didn’t own a mirror to check it for himself. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind, but, thinking of it, he should have been suspicious of the constant soreness and hoarseness of his throat. Of course Montparnasse would have marked him, _branded_ him, he was making sure Grantaire remembered who he belonged to. And the thought of having the man’s hand printed around his neck only made him hate himself further.

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras said when Grantaire didn’t reply. He took another step closer to the cynic, outstretching a hand as if to take Grantaire’s into his. Usually, Grantaire wouldn’t have minded – he would have even enjoyed it - but he was too filthy to touch Enjolras by this point. He placed his hand away from Enjolras’ grasp. He looked resigned. “I… I don’t know if this is a… a… fetish-related bruise, I… I don’t have much… expertise on this matter but… if… If you are being abused, by your partner or by somebody else, I want you to know that you can count on me and on our friends to take the necessary measures to keep you safe and healthy”.

                Grantaire scoffed, sarcasm flooding the gesture. For a single second, he didn’t care whether it hurt Enjolras or not.

                “I don’t have a partner, Enjolras”, he said, not looking the man in the eye, because how could he? Ever since he met Enjolras, he lost all possible interest in any other person that may appear in his life. And how pathetic was that?

                “Then who did this?”, Enjolras frowned. “Who hurt you?”

                Grantaire couldn’t exactly tell Enjolras that it had been his drug dealer who was also collecting information on the Amis to give to the Special Police only so that his gun provider wasn’t sent to jail through Grantaire.

                “This is nothing”, Grantaire said. _I am nothing_ , he thought. Why did Enjolras care so much after all the harsh things Grantaire had told him anyway? “Don’t worry about it, Apollo”.

                “Stop… calling me that!” Enjolras protested through gritted teeth. He sounded more frustrated than angry by now. “I am no god”, he continued, more composed. “I am a human being. I have flaws. I have _insecurities_ ”, he took in a deep breath, and Grantaire felt guilty for making him feel like that. “I have fears and I have defects. I am not perfect, and I wish you’d stop seeing me that way”.

                Grantaire stared at the frustrated leader for long seconds before finally replying.

                “Ok”, was all he said.

                “It’s alright if you don’t want to reach for me to help”, Enjolras continued with a sigh and Grantaire’s stomach churned. “I would have never slapped you if I had known you are going through abuse –“

                “I’m not going through abuse”, Grantaire interrupted, annoyed by Enjolras’ assumption. God, how pretentious could he get?

                “Then how do you explain this?” Enjolras asked matter-of-factly, gesturing at Grantaire’s neck.

                Something rose inside Grantaire, something ugly and blazing that felt like a stomach burn. He turned his head aside, overwhelmed about all this. His ribs were still aching, his throat was still sore, his hands twitched for a drink and all this human interaction were getting the best of him. He just wanted to be alone in the dark where no one could annoy him, where no one could ask him questions for which he couldn’t provide the answers, and where no one could judge him for what he had and was doing. He wanted to get out of there, and as the adrenaline prevenient of his fight-or-flee instinct kicked into his bloodstream, he grew more aggressive even though actually hurting Enjolras’ feelings was the last thing he wanted in the world.

                “You know what?” he said, snorting sarcastically. “I don’t have to explain shit”.

                “I thought we were friends”, Enjolras protested sadly. “Friends trust in each other”.

                “Friends?” Grantaire laughed humorlessly. Enjolras looked hurt at this, but did his best to hide it beneath frustration. “How could I be your friend, Enjolras? You clearly just don’t want me to leave because I’m the only one who can make your stupid logo for a pointless cause”.

                “Why are you such a jackass?” Enjolras protested, angry again. Good. He’d rather have Enjolras angry than sorry for him. “And why do you think so low of me? I told you I would never do that. If you don’t want to do the logos, then don’t. Just don’t try to find pathetic excuses for not doing it just because you don’t believe in our cause”;

                “I’m not finding excuses to anything, I’m just saying that I can’t see any other reason for you to be friends with me other than for what I can artistically provide you”, Grantaire rolled his eyes. Enjolras scoffed in disbelief.

                “How can you blatantly insult me like this, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, not bothering to hide the hurt anymore. “Maybe I want to be friends with you because I find you interesting? And because I like you? But sure, I understand if your head is buried that far up your ass for you not to see that!”

                Grantaire’s words were no longer under his control. It was as if his brain had developed a separate consciousness of his own and took control of his entire body, leading this stupid discussion with Enjolras by saying whatever came to his mind first and without running it through a filter.

                “So you expect me to believe that you like me?”, Grantaire scoffed. “C’mon, Enjolras. No one _likes_ me. I’m self-aware enough to know that. And I can see no other way why you’d want me around other than –“

                Grantaire was interrupted.

                By a pair of lips.

                Enjolras’ lips.

                He was too shell-shocked to return the kiss, eyes wide and staring at Enjolras’ tightly shut eyelids, face flushed and lips connecting harshly with Grantaire’s. it lasted for a couple of seconds, but to Grantaire it felt like an eternity, heart beating so fast that it felt as if it was about to explode any second now. His own knees were visibly shaking, but so were Enjolras’. When the leader finally broke the messy kiss and stepped away from Grantaire, he opened his eyes, face still very red and breathing shallow from nervousness, but his face was twisted with something akin to…

                Horror.

                “I… I…”, Enjolras started, clearly nervous, rosy lips even redder from the kiss. “I’m sorry, I… I shouldn’t… I should have… I…”, he swallowed dry, stepping away from Grantaire and not daring to look him in the eye. “I shouldn’t have done this, I’m sorry”, he said, before turning on his heels and fleeing the room, leaving the door wide open behind him and Grantaire alone on the small backroom of the Musain.

                And he could no longer sustain his own weight because _fuck_ , Enjolras had just kissed him and looked horrified afterwards and he must have been so disgusted by Grantaire that he ran away, incapable of looking him in the eye. The cynic had to lean back against the wall of the room, breathing shallow and tears already pooling in his eyes. Fuck Montparnasse and the Patron-Minette and all the people who had ever beaten him, _this_ was the most hurtful thing that Grantaire had ever been through.

                He loved Enjolras, but he had always known that he would never be able to have him. He was content with just loving him from afar, aware of the inevitability of Enjolras’ eventual hatred for him. He had accepted the fact that his days of friendship with Enjolras were counted, but this? This was blatantly cruel. Enjolras had given him the taste of what kissing him, what being with him would be like, just to take that away from him and cruelly show Grantaire how utterly despicable he was in Enjolras’ eyes. Enjolras had apologized for kissing him, clearly regretting the action. He hated himself more than ever, and the ache in his chest was too overwhelming for him to bear. He needed morphine, and beer, and anything that would make the pain and the memories of Enjolras go away.

                Just as Joly appeared on the backroom door, leaning heavily on his cane and looking worriedly for Grantaire, the cynic passed him like a bolt, meaning to flee the Musain. As he ignored Joly’s cries of his name and passed the several confused faces staring at him at the main room, he noticed Enjolras wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even to Bahorel, who put himself in front of Grantaire and asked him what had happened. He pushed the big man aside with more strength than necessary and continued his way home – could he even call that a home? – not looking back at any of the people calling his name.

                As usual, the ride home was like a blur to him, and he didn’t even bother to lock the door behind him after he slammed it close. The first thing he did was to pick up his phone and send Montparnasse the daily report.

                **To: Montparnasse (20:13) They just discussed some shit about gay rights and the meeting ended early because someone there felt indisposed**

                He didn’t even care whether Montparnasse believed him or not; it was the least of his worries. All he could see and think of was Enjolras, the look of disgust on his face, the slap he had given Grantaire, the warmth of his lips, the pure horror that had filled his face after the kiss, his apology, his eyes, his hair, his scent, his warmth, his skin, his lips, his Enjolras, _Enjolras_ , **Enjolras** , **_Enjolras –_**

He couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about ending his stash of morphine. He picked up everything he had – everything but the hidden emergency stash; his current situation was pretty bad but not _emergency_ bad – and lined it up perfectly on the table, snorting it all in one go even though he knew he shouldn’t. Then he fell back, sitting on the floor with his back leaning against the base of the couch, tilting his head back and waiting for the rush to settle in. As he waited, he thought more and more about Enjolras, thoughts of golden hair and reddish lips mixing together until his memory of the man started to look more ethereal than anything. He tried to remember nice things Enjolras had told him before – some sick sort of coping mechanism of his mind – but all his words were turned into disgusted scowls and angry snarls and passive-aggressive words that made wrecking sobs fight their way out of his chest until he was a crying mess lying on the ground. He probably looked pathetic: high, crying and sobbing while lying on the still glass covered floor of his apartment. Images and memories of Enjolras mixed together until Grantaire no longer knew what was reality and what was his imagination, and his voice sounded more synthetically created than anything else, as if Grantaire had tried to commit it to memory but failed miserably to do so. He spent minutes like this, thinking and crying and remembering the man’s face, until Enjolras was above him, his sweet and patient face turned into one of an avenging angel, unattainable, angry and ready to strike Grantaire’s sins away with a mighty sword. He pierced Grantaire’s chest with it, making him scream, and when the cynic finally opened his tightly shut eyes he saw through his glassy vision that it was Joly, not Enjolras above him, and it was the doctor’s fingers prodding at his ribs, not a sword.

                “…ave you done?” he was asking him, but the sound of his voice wasn’t matching the movement of his mouth, as if reality had suffered some sort of synchronization glitch. “Holy shit, help me lift him”.

                Someone touched him but he could barely feel it through the numbness, and the world spun around, making Grantaire dizzy and blackening his vision for a few seconds. He didn’t know who was touching him and his mind was too sluggish for him to even think of turning to look; all he knew was that Joly was there and that he was trying to take Grantaire’s shirt off. Grantaire blinked sluggishly, noticing that his mouth was slack and that his breathing was heavy, arms thrown uselessly on his side, falling from the edge of the couch.

                “Joly?”, he asked, voice slurred and confused. Joly reappeared into his line of sight, looking extremely concerned and holding something that looked like a flashlight.

                “Oh my god R, what did you do?”, Joly asked, voice still slow and distant. He sounded like he was about to cry. Suddenly a sharp light invaded Grantaire’s eyes, and he tried to shut them close and turn his head away, but something held him still and pulled his lids back open. The winced, a stabbing sensation running through his skull and he could feel the tears pooling on his burning eyes. “What did you take? Was it morphine?”, the young doctor asked frantically.

                “Jeez, the place is covered in glass, Joly, be careful where you step”, someone above him said, and even if Grantaire wanted to turn and look at whoever it was, he found his limbs too heavy to do so.

                “Was. It. Morphine?” Joly asked, this time more loudly. Grantaire frowned. _Why do you care_ , he wanted to ask. He ended up nodding instead, when he found his tongue to feel like cotton inside his mouth. “Shit”, Joly muttered. And then he was gone from Grantaire’s view.

                Everything became a blur from then on, only small noises and voices being caught by his scarce attention before disappearing again into nothing. He didn’t know how much time had passed since he got home, or who was or wasn’t there with him. Eventually, these thoughts dissipated until there was nothing on his mind but Enjolras, and at the faint remembrance of the messy kiss they had shared, he thought he let out a sob. As much as he knew that being hated by Enjolras was inevitable, he didn’t want to be. As much as he knew he didn’t deserve to be loved, he wanted to be.

                He ended up succumbing to the darkness that unconsciousness provided.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke up to a mess of loud, incomprehensible thoughts that gradually died down until there was only silence, as if all the sounds inside his head had been suddenly turned off.

                He could hear the distant ticking of a clock far, far away, and some car passing on the street outside his apartment. He could also hear someone breathing next to him, which gave him enough motivation to finally open his eyes, though the lids were heavy and his brain felt like wool.

                He had to blink a few times to focus his vision because of the dryness of his eyes and, propping himself up against the pillows, he looked around his room – how did he even get there? – only to see Joly staring at him from a chair beside his bed. It looked as if he was trying to glare at Grantaire, but something akin to sadness in his expression took the hostile effect away. Something inside the cynic’s stomach churned, and as he opened his mouth to speak, a sickening wave of nausea flooded him. He only had the time to throw himself from the bed, almost knocking Joly down from the chair, and run/stumble his way to the bathroom, barely managing to open the toilet lid before throwing up. He was dry heaving when Joly finally appeared at the door frame, leaning heavily against it. In his dizziness and retching process, Grantaire didn’t notice the absence of Joly’s cane.

                The young doctor didn’t say a word, merely staring at Grantaire, who could only be thankful for the absence of pity on Joly’s eyes. He pressed the flush button and unsteadily got to his feet, despite the trembling of his legs. Turning the sink on, he rinsed his mouth of the foul taste of bile and brushed his teeth, before finally daring to look Joly in the eye.

                “What are you doing here?”, he asked, voice hoarse and low. His throat burned as he spoke, but he ignored the sensation. “And most importantly, how did you find out where I live?”

                “I had Lesgle follow you after you barged out of the Musain last night”, Joly explained, voice lacking its usual warmth. He was very serious, more serious than Grantaire was used to. “I was worried about you. Turns out it was a good thing he did, or you would have probably died”.

                Grantaire scoffed at this, drying his lips with the back of his hand and stepping out of the bathroom without sparing Joly a second look. His friend followed him, limping slightly, but Grantaire didn’t notice as he made his way to the kitchen and started to brew some coffee.

                “What do you remember?” Joly insisted, leaning on the kitchen sink as he watched Grantaire wait for the coffee to get ready.

                “Why do you care?” Grantaire answered, more aggressively than necessary. He didn’t need Joly’s pity. He didn’t want it.

                “Because I am your friend and I care about you”, Joly explained, sounding tired. “How many times do I have to make that clear?”

                His heart started beating faster, even though he didn’t know why. He turned his head away from Joly’s gaze.

                “You need help –“, Joly started, but they had had that argument before and Grantaire was definitely not in the mood for that.

                “No”, he interrupted, taking two – miraculously – clean mugs from the kitchen cabinet and pouring the hot coffee inside them. He gave one to Joly without looking at him and then made his way back to the bedroom. He knew Joly would follow him and for once, didn’t bother to stop him.

                “Why are you doing this to yourself?” Joly asked, sounding annoyed. “When I got here last night, you were hallucinating from high fever! You were literally delirious, ranting about Enjolras and angels and demons and me and Lesgle had to shove you inside a cold shower before your brain melted inside your skull!”, he was angry now, and Grantaire wasn’t surprise. It was only a matter of time before he pushed Joly off his edge. “I don’t know whether you were trying to kill yourself or if you’re just stupid, by I can’t just stand idly while you ruin yourself like this. You could have died, Grantaire, are you aware of that?”

                If it weren’t for his current state of self-loathing and hangover, he would have never been reckless to the point of allowing the words to escape his mouth, but Grantaire found himself saying:

                “So what?”

                Yeah. That was a bad choice. He dared to spare a quick glance at Joly, only to see him shocked and hurt. He hated himself even more now, but turned his back on the man, sitting on the edge of his bed.

                A long time passed without another word from either of them, but Grantaire could hear Joly’s hitched breathing behind him. He wanted to cry and scream and mostly be alone, he wanted to kick Joly out of his apartment and never see his dumb, worried face ever again, he wanted to tell him and Enjolras and all the Amis to go fuck themselves and leave him alone. But he also wanted to pull Joly, saint Joly who always cared too much, into a warm fulfilling hug, he wanted to tell him everything that was crushing him from the inside and let the weight on his shoulders out, he wanted to trust Joly with his darkest secrets and confide on him like he once did, he wanted to be friends with him, to be friends with the Amis, to go back to having a happy, normal life as he did before that whole shit went down and ruined him for good.

                But he knew he couldn’t. How utopic was that? If he told Joly, he would tell the other Amis, and they would hate him forever. They would kick him out, and Montparnasse would find out about his betrayal and have him killed. Not that he cared anyway, but despite of his denial, he was just as afraid of dying as he was afraid of living.

                The sudden memory of Enjolras’ horrified face staring at him after they kissed invaded his mind abruptly, and he couldn’t fight the tears that welled in his eyes. If only he could forget about that.

                Enjolras hated him anyway, him being a lying piece of shit or not. Would telling Joly about everything that he was going through really be that destroying?

                The bed creaked and he noticed that Joly had seated beside him on the mattress. The temptation to let everything out grew stronger. But he couldn’t. Instead, he merely stared at Joly, who was staring straight ahead, a pensive expression on his face. They were very close, closer than they had been in a long time, and Joly broke the barrier-like remaining distance between them by reaching and taking Grantaire’s hand into his, eyes never leaving the wall in front of them. Grantaire didn’t pull away from the touch for once.

                “I want to help you”, Joly finally said after ages of silence, turning his head and looking at Grantaire. “But I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. I won’t force you to tell me anything you don’t want to, even if I’m dying to know what’s going on with you. Just know that, no matter what you think about yourself, you have people _, friends_ , who care about you and would suffer with your departure”. He took in a deep breath before continuing. “If you won’t do this for yourself, do it for them”.

                Grantaire couldn’t say or do anything. He merely looked at Joly with sad eyes that told the young doctor enough. He got to his feet, finding his cane that had been leaning against the wall in front of the pair, and made his way to the door. Grantaire didn’t move an inch, staring at the now empty space in which Joly had been seating mere seconds before.

                “Oh, and Grantaire”, Joly said before leaving the room. Grantaire didn’t turn to look at him, remaining at the same uncomfortable position on the bed instead. “Whatever it is that’s going on between you and Enjolras… talk to him. It’s not good to keep your feelings for yourself”.

                Before Grantaire could compute what Joly had just said or even answer, the man was gone, leaving him alone in his dark room. Eventually, he shifted, muscles sore and hands shaking. He couldn’t remember what he had told Joly on the previous night, during his delusions of Enjolras and forgotten rants. He only hoped he hadn’t said anything too revealing. Even if he knew that, eventually, the Amis would find out about Montparnasse and his blackmails, he wasn’t prepared to be cut out of the group, not just yet.

                But wasn’t he already cut out in a way? He didn’t know if he’d be able to return to the Musain and face Enjolras, not after the kiss from the previous night. He didn’t even know if he’d be able to face Joly after that morning. He didn’t know if Joly would tell someone about his addiction, he didn’t know if he had told Joly something about either his deal with Montparnasse or his feelings for Enjolras, he didn’t know whether Enjolras hated him or just despised him. He didn’t know anything.

                The only thing he knew was that he needed a drink.

                On his way to the kitchen, he finally noticed that the broken glass had been cleaned off his floor, and that his mess of a living room was somewhat less dusty and more presentable now. His heart tightened inside his chest at the thought of a limping Joly bending down and cleaning his place in exchange for nothing, and then being practically driven out by a rude, stupid and hungover Grantaire that didn’t know how to properly value his friends, however scarce they were.

                He didn’t find any alcohol in the apartment, which was probably also Joly’s doing. He couldn’t tell whether he hated or loved him for that.

                He had been thinking about quitting for a long time, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t worth the effort. Firstly, he lacked the motivation to do so, secondly, he had tried to go cold turkey before and nearly died.

                Thirdly, morphine and alcohol seemed to be the only things capable of getting Enjolras out of his head.

                He had never expected to fall in love at that point of his life. He deemed himself too much of a cynic and of a mess to end up doing something so stupid and pathetic as falling in love. But again, Grantaire was a stupid and a pathetic man, so there were no surprises there. He would inevitably screw up at some point, and if falling in love with Enjolras was the cause of his doom, then so be it.

                But of course he would fall in love with someone who was horrified by him. And just the remembrance of Enjolras’ face after the kiss was enough to make his fingers twitch in need for a drink. Bless Joly and his giant heart for encouraging him to quit, but right now, he needed the burn of the alcohol on his throat. He needed to replace the pain in his heart for the burn on his throat, even if it only lasted a few seconds.

                Before he left the apartment to go to a nearby store so he could replace some of the bottles that Joly had gotten rid of with the little money he still had left, he grabbed his phone to check it. His eyes were glued to the screen, though, when he saw the name that made his heart leap inside his chest and beat twice as fast.

                **From: Enjolras (04:55) Hey. I’m sorry for barging out like that last night. I wanted to talk to you. Would you mind it terribly to come to my place tomorrow afternoon? We could have that lunch we had scheduled if you want.**

                He re-read the message over and over until he lost count of how many times and what the words even meant. What did Enjolras want from him? Would he ask Grantaire to never show up on the meetings again? Would he tell him he wanted nothing but a friendship with him? Would he ask him to forget about what had happened, even though the sensation of having Enjolras’ lips against his was carved into his brain as much as his look of horror?

                He startled when the phone on his hand vibrated with a brand new text just as his thoughts began to race. He looked down, re-focusing on the screen, only to see that he had just received another text from Enjolras.

                **From: Enjolras (11:27) I’ll understand if you don’t want to. I just figured I should apologize properly for last night. I would appreciate if you could answer my text, even if it’s just a no.**

                Grantaire frowned. Apologize? What did Enjolras want to apologize about? For giving him false hope? He didn’t understand. Enjolras was a mystery indeed. Maybe he thought that he was taking advantage of Grantaire? He did look innocent enough to be the kind of person to think that.

                He wanted to deny Enjolras just like Enjolras had denied him, but he found himself incapable of that. Plus, he was pathetic enough to sell his dignity in exchange for a few minutes of Enjolras’ attention.

**To: Enjolras (11:30) Alright, Apollo. What time?**

                The reply came a few seconds later, before Grantaire even had the time to regret sending the text.

**From: Enjolras (11:30) Whatever time suits you best. Is 1 p.m. ok?**

**To: Enjolras (11:31) Yeah**

                He put the phone away. Instead of heading to the store, he turned the TV on and listened to the static while he stared at the strangely clean floor.

                                                                                               -

                Figuring out what clothes to wear to Enjolras’ was a challenge, but he ended up settling to tight jeans and his green hoodie that covered most of his neck. He didn’t want to have unwanted questions about that anymore.

                His palms were sweaty all the way to Enjolras’ apartment, but he shoved them in his pockets to hide them from view. He was dying to know what Enjolras could possibly want to apologize for, and what he wanted to talk about. Thousands of intrusive thoughts flooded his mind with each step, each of them trying to talk him out of seeing Enjolras, but he kept going, not allowing himself to give up what would probably be his last chance at ever talking to Apollo again before he was cut out of his life. A light drizzle was falling and making his thick hair damp, but he shrugged it off, ignoring the cold wind that was trying to make its way into his hoodie. Increasing his pace to avoid the incoming rain, he soon found himself standing in front of the closed door of Enjolras’ apartment. He stayed there, merely staring for several minutes before finally uttering the courage to knock on it, despite of his mind screaming for him to leave.

                Enjolras opened the door almost immediately, and the first thing that Grantaire noticed was that there were dark circles under his eyes, which was not uncommon, as he had grown to realize, except that this time they seemed deeper, as if Enjolras hadn’t slept through the whole night. Then the leader’s brow twisted into a frown of concern as he uttered:

                “Oh my god what happened to you?”

                Grantaire unconsciously mimicked Enjolras’ frown, not understanding what he meant by that. Enjolras, realizing the cynic’s confusion, basically pulled him inside the apartment and closed the door behind Grantaire, making his way into the kitchen and disappearing inside it. Grantaire merely stood, looking around the apartment in clear discomfort, waiting for Enjolras to return. He didn’t feel comfortable enough to make himself at home and sit on the couch uninvited, especially after what had happened between the two of them.

                Enjolras emerged out of the kitchen with a mug on his hand and a blanket on his other. He handed them both to Grantaire, who hesitantly took them with a questioning look.

                “It’s tea”, Enjolras explained, shifting his hands awkwardly before setting them on his hips. He wasn’t meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “It’s probably freezing outside, so I figured I’d make tea to help warm you up. And you’re damp from the drizzle, so I thought the blanket would help keep you warm”. There was a moment of silence in which they refused to stare at each other, both too uncomfortable for that. Then, after tense seconds of awkwardness, Enjolras seemed to remember something. “Oh!”, he exclaimed, “You can sit down, make yourself at home!”. He gestured to the couch and made his way for it, anxiously looking back as if to check if Grantaire was following him. He sat on the couch as far away from Enjolras as humanly possible, sipping his tea cautiously to see if it was too hot. It was, but he didn’t care. He set the blanket on the empty space between himself and Enjolras, finally meeting the leader’s eyes.

                “What did you mean?”, Grantaire heard himself ask, voice still somewhat hoarse.

                “Hm?” Enjolras questioned, not following Grantaire’s line of thought.

                “When you opened the door”, Grantaire explained, taking another sip of the tea. It wasn’t the best tea he’d ever had, but it was not the worse, either. “You asked what had happened to me”.

                “Oh”, Enjolras understood, and at least he had the decency to look embarrassed about what he was about to say. “I… I don’t mean for you to take offense, but… have… have you looked at yourself in a mirror today?”

                Grantaire felt himself blush despite of his best attempts to keep his face neutral. He looked away from Enjolras, finishing his tea and setting the cup on the coffee table in front of them.

                “Nah”, he simply answered, making no effort to keep the conversation going. He was self-aware enough to know that he was ugly, and after nearly overdosing just a few hours ago, he must look like utter shit. But he didn’t need Enjolras to tell him that, on the top of everything else.

                There was another awkward pause in which neither of them said anything. Grantaire could see Enjolras’ hands fidgeting on his lap through his peripheral vision.

                “So”, the leader finally said, voice sounding constricted. Grantaire was polite enough to tilt his head towards him, but their eyes never met. “I called you here because… I… I wanted to talk to you. About yesterday”.

                “Don’t worry, Apollo”, Grantaire sighed, already expecting what was coming. If he had to rip off a band-aid, he’d be better off ripping it with one single pull, instead of slowly. It was the same with this conversation. “I understand”.

                “You… You do?”, Enjolras asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

                “Yeah”, Grantaire scoffed, smirking with a self-deprecating manner. “I get it. You don’t need to feel obliged to have anything to do with me just because we kissed once. It’s ok to regret it. Damn, I wouldn’t want to kiss myself either, so yeah, I totally get it. We can go on pretending this has never happened”. It sounded more bitter than he had first intended, but for once, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

                “You… you want to pretend this has never happened?”, Enjolras asked, and he sounded… hurt. Grantaire turned to meet his eyes, only to see Enjolras staring back at him with a mix of sadness and confusion on his face.

                “Uh… what?”, Grantaire said, dumbly. Like it always happened when it came to Enjolras, his brain short-circuited.

                “You said you wanted to pretend we never kissed”, Enjolras stated, a bit accusatorily.

                “Well… you don’t?”, Grantaire asked, more confused than ever. They were both frowning.

                Enjolras hesitated for a few moments, as if he was making a decision.

                “If… if that’s what you want”, he ended up saying, staring at his own trembling hands.

                Usually, Grantaire would take Enjolras’ word, but he was too emotionally ruined for that. That disgusting, pathetic scrap of hope inside his chest twitched and tried to smother him, which was why he found himself with enough courage to pressure Enjolras on the matter when he normally wouldn’t.

                “What do _you_ want?” he asked.

                Enjolras seemed to be taken aback by the question, raising his head to look at Grantaire.

                “I…”, he bit his lower lip and sucked on it, pensive, and Grantaire pretended that there was nothing twitching inside his trousers. “I asked you to come here to… to apologize for barging out like that yesterday. It was wrong of me and I should have stayed back and dealt with the situation instead of fleeing, but I was so nervous that… that…”, he took in a deep breath, as if he was trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry”, he continued after a few seconds of just breathing. “I’m usually so eloquent and direct with my speeches, but whenever… whenever it comes to you, my brain gets all fuzzy and I start to stutter and rant about things that have nothing to do with what I want to communicate, just like I’m doing right now, and honestly it’s so frustrating because I’ve never felt like this before and I wish I could just tell you blatantly how my heart works but not even I know, and it took Combeferre to explain to me what I was feeling because I first thought that I was sick and looked for Joly for help but now I feel so stupid because this has been so obvious to everyone except me, and now that I look back it’s all so clear but I still don’t understand how or why this happened so fast, since it’s never happened before and I shouldn’t even –“

                “Enjolras”, Grantaire interrupted, thoughts knotting together by Enjolras’ confused rant. Enjolras stopped speaking, taking in another deep breath and closing his eyes in preparation. Grantaire waited, heart thumping madly inside his chest and hands trembling inside his hoodie’s pockets. His mind was so concentrated and filled with expectation for what Enjolras was about to say, that no thoughts crossed it. He didn’t even notice that he was holding his breath.

                “I… have feelings for you”, Enjolras said, eyes still closed, as if he was afraid of looking at Grantaire, who was still holding his breath and staring at Enjolras with a shell-shocked face. “I ran away yesterday because I kissed you on impulse, and I shouldn’t have done that. I should have asked your permission. And then I got so embarrassed that I… I just couldn’t… I wanted to explain but I was so nervous that I listened to my instincts and ran away instead of explaining it properly to you, and I understand if you hate me for it or if you don’t reciprocate my feelings, it’s fine, you’re not obliged to and I don’t want you to feel entitled to anything, I wasn’t even supposed to let you know but then you were being so self-deprecating and acting as if nobody cared about you and I just couldn’t handle it and I had to do something and –“

                “Enjolras”, Grantaire interrupted again, but this time his voice was way tenderer. He even dared to approach Enjolras on the couch by a couple inches, but he left his sweaty hands inside his pockets. Enjolras’ rant came to a halt, but his eyelids were still closed, breathing rapid and irregular. “Look at me?”, Grantaire asked, tone of voice so different from before that even he flinched at the contrast. Enjolras opened his eyes, but didn’t meet Grantaire’s. His face was as red as his lips. Grantaire realized that was the best he was going to get and continued. “Do you mean it?”

                “Yes”, Enjolras responded immediately, breathing out the word. He swallowed dry and his eyes averted downright.

                “So you have feelings for me, and you kissed me because of this and the only reason you ran away was because you were embarrassed, and not because you were disgusted or anything?”, he pressured. He hated how blatant the question sounded, but he needed to know for sure. He needed to be sure that Enjolras wasn’t tricking him, wasn’t lying so that he wouldn’t feel so bad. Enjolras looked up in horror at this – oops, there it was again – and opened and closed his mouth as he tried to figure out what to say.

                “I would never –! I don’t –!”, he mustered, sounding indignant. “I wasn’t disgusted; why would I be?!”

                “You kissed me and then you looked horrified”, Grantaire explained. “And then you ran away. A man wonders”.

                Enjolras’ blush deepened even further, if that was possible. He was gaping slightly as if that possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind.

                “I’m so sorry”, he said, sounding sincere like he always did. Grantaire realized that Enjolras never lied about anything – he was always sincere. If he had to say something rude, he didn’t beat around the bush. Maybe – just maybe – he was being serious about this. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for you to think that. I wasn’t disgusted, I was just… nervous. Ugh”, he groaned, leaning his elbows on his knees and covering both his eyes with his hands in defeat. “I’m really bad at this, aren’t I?”

                Grantaire wanted to reach out and comfort him, but doubt and hesitation still filled his racing head. Instead, he only sat there, staring at Enjolras’ frustrated form.

                “I understand if you want to pretend that this has never happened”, he continued when Grantaire didn’t say anything, not lifting his head. “And I understand if you don’t reciprocate my feelings. I just wanted to explain things to you after tonight, because honestly, I should have figured that you would find a way to blame yourself for something that wasn’t your fault”.

                Something inside Grantaire’s chest twitched uncomfortably, because yeah, he tended to do that, but with good reason. And honestly, how was it possible for Enjolras to be that terribly obtuse to the point of not realizing how terribly and irrevocably in love Grantaire was with him?

                “I love you”, he said. And then he stopped breathing. And then his eyes widened. And then his lips parted to form a shocked ‘o’. And then all his muscles tensed. And then Enjolras looked up and stared at him with so many mixed feelings on his face that Grantaire, in his own shock, couldn’t bear to compute.

                Why the fuck had he done that? What was he thinking? Why would he put the noose around his own neck?

                He loved – lusted for, ached for, admired, venerated – Enjolras, but he knew he couldn’t. He and Enjolras were on opposite sides, even if the leader didn’t know that yet. And even if they weren’t on opposite sides, they were opposites by nature and by ideal. Things would – could – never work out between them, it was hopeless. The incoming betrayal that Grantaire would inevitably have to do would only hurt Enjolras more now, and Grantaire hated himself for it. He hated everything and everyone, except for Enjolras, who was staring at him with an unreadable look and what seemed to be a forming smile on his lips.

                And how pathetic was Grantaire? One simple half-formed smile from Enjolras was enough to make him forget about his problems, even if for just one second.

                Fuck it. He was doomed from the moment he took Montparnasse’s offer. He had always been aware of the risk of ending up dead.

                At that time, he made a choice.

                Enjolras loving him back was a variable that not even god could have predicted. It was a variable that changed everything, because his contempt and hatred were guaranteed, but his love was something rare that Grantaire wouldn’t have dared to dream of. He could handle to betray Enjolras while the man hated him. He would feel bad about it and never get rid of the overwhelming guilt that would overcome him, but to betray Enjolras when he loved him? That was something Grantaire couldn’t do, and he was still the scum of the earth, but at least he hadn’t fallen so low to the point of betraying a man who loved him.

                His rare contentment with himself lasted little, though, because an intrusive voice on the back of his head whispered: _Joly loves you and you were willing to betray him anyway._

                That was true and Grantaire hated himself for it. But seeing Enjolras’ now full-form, ear-to-ear blinding smile made him push the thought to the back of his head, selfish as he was.

                “Y-you do?” Enjolras asked, dimples appearing on either side of his cheeks. Grantaire’s chest was all warm and fuzzy.

                “Enjolras, I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you”, Grantaire said with honesty. “I love you. And I never thought that you would love me back”.

                “I love you”, Enjolras muttered, closing the remaining distance between them on the couch and throwing his arms around Grantaire’s neck in a tight hug. “I have never felt like this before, about anyone. And… and I think I was afraid because it happened so fast, but now I know, I am sure that I love you”.

                Grantaire held him in place, taking in the scent of Enjolras’ hair and feeling his warmth sip into his clothes.

                “I love you too, Enjolras”, he whispered against his neck. Enjolras pulled back, breaking their hug and staring at Grantaire with his beautiful green eyes. For a moment, Grantaire feared that the truth would slip through his gaze and that Enjolras would find out what a filthy liar he was, but then Enjolras blushed and he said:

                “Do you permit it?”

                And then Grantaire’s hand was cradling Enjolras cheek and he wasn’t sure which of them leant in for the kiss first, because their lips met at the exact same time, and if Grantaire had thought that their first kiss had been maddening, was because he had never allowed himself to curl his tongue around Enjolras’. Electricity and arousal were running on his veins as they kissed, the position on the couch making Enjolras basically sit on Grantaire’s lap so they could properly touch lips. Grantaire’s hands found their way from Enjolras’ cheeks to his hips, holding the leader in place as their tongues intertwined until it felt like they had become one. Enjolras had clearly never kissed anyone before, but he was doing great. His hand had found Grantaire’s hair and his fingers were tugging at the curls, sending goosebumps all over Grantaire’s skin and making him bite at Enjolras’ lower lip as a teasing. Enjolras let out a moan – a literal moan – at this, and honestly, he was trying to kill Grantaire, wasn’t he? Grantaire’s cock twitched inside his pants again, and he was glad that even though Enjolras was on the top of him, their bodies weren’t glued enough for him to feel Grantaire’s erection.

                When they finally parted, breathless and panting and flushed, Enjolras allowed his forehead to rest against Grantaire’s, his previous smile still playing at his lips. Grantaire allowed himself to smile back, though he was sure he didn’t look as radiant as Enjolras.

                How was it possible that Enjolras loved him back? He must have died from the opiate overdose and, for some kind of system mistake, was sent to heaven.

                Or maybe he was still delusional.

                Enjolras must have noticed the way that Grantaire’s face fell at the sudden thought, because his smile dropped and he looked at him questioningly.

                “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning for a second.

                Grantaire let out a humorless laugh, leaning against Enjolras and not looking at him.

                “Nothing, it’s just…”, he hesitated. “It feels too good to be true”.

                He didn’t want to look at Enjolras’ sad face, but tender fingers propping his chin up made it inevitable to meet the man’s eyes. Enjolras proceeded to kiss his forehead, both his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his chin, both his eyes and then finally his lips, before he responded.

                “It is true”, he reassured, dismounting Grantaire and sitting back on the couch beside him. He took Grantaire’s hand into his and squeezed it comfortingly. “And I will make you feel good. I will make you feel deserving. Because you deserve to be happy, R”, he kissed Grantaire’s knuckles, and the cynic wanted to cry. How could Enjolras love him so openly, so purely, while all Grantaire ever did was betray him and humiliate him in front of his group? Grantaire wasn’t deserving. The last thing that he deserved on earth was Enjolras’ love. Once again, he must have noticed Grantaire’s true thoughts through his face, because he pulled him into another hug. “I know it must be hard for you to believe me, but I’ve been told I can be very convincing”, he said, and Grantaire couldn’t help but to chuckle. That was true. “And I won’t give up until you accept that I love you”, he gave him another kiss on the cheek, and then lowered his head, looking embarrassed.  “I know that this must be too… recent”, he started, but Grantaire silenced him with a quick kiss before he could continue.

                “Don’t forget it’s recent to me too”, he tried to reassure, putting on a smile just to calm Enjolras.

                “God, we’re both so stupid, aren’t we?” Enjolras chuckled, nuzzling against Grantaire’s neck. He let out a content sigh before responding.

                “Yeah, we are”, he smiled.

                They stayed like that for pleasant minutes, neither of them feeling the need to talk. Surely, Enjolras wanted to ask many questions to Grantaire, but somehow it felt inadequate to do so and ruin that precious moment. Grantaire, for once, felt somewhat at peace, the scent of Enjolras’ hair pleasantly flooding his senses until he felt relaxed enough to close his eyes. He already had a plan, a way to stop betraying Enjolras and delivering him to his worst enemies without getting killed by Montparnasse in the process. It was something he had unconsciously started to do for a while now, and that seemed to be the only way out of this situation without making Enjolras hate him and without bringing the Patron-Minette’s rage upon him.

                He would lie to Montparnasse.

                It was risky and he knew it, but now that he had Enjolras’ love, he was too greedy to let it go that easily. He still thought that Enjolras deserved better, but since he was a disgusting, selfish piece of shit, he found himself unable to let go, even though their newborn relationship was just a few minutes old.

                He was really pathetic.

                He didn’t even realize that he had been dozing off – he was still exhausted from the whole events of the night – until Enjolras suddenly jolted and got to his feet out of nowhere. Grantaire opened his eyes in confusion, frowning at Enjolras nervous image.

                “The lunch!”, he exclaimed, running to the kitchen. “I forgot about the lunch!”

                “Enjolras, don’t worry”, Grantaire smiled, following the man into the kitchen and hugging him tenderly from behind as Enjolras grabbed empty pans and pots and threw them on the sink in a rush. Grantaire held his hands to pull them into a stop, even daring to plant a kiss against Enjolras’ neck. “We can order something, ok?”

                Enjolras let out a frustrated sigh, allowing himself to sink back against Grantaire’s hug.

                “I’m so sorry, Feuilly was supposed to come over earlier to help me prepare lunch to you but he couldn’t make it”, Enjolras explained, and Grantaire couldn’t help but to stiffen at the mention of Feuilly’s name. Enjolras, ever observant, noticed it, and turned back so that he could face Grantaire. “What?”, he asked.

                Grantaire shrugged, clicking his tongue in a way that showed that he didn’t want to talk about it. How could he admit that he was jealous of the intimacy that Enjolras seemed to share with Feuilly? He had just gained a way into Enjolras’ life, he didn’t want to ruin it by looking like an obsessive, controlling boyfriend.

                “It’s nothing”, he said simply.

                “Tell me”, Enjolras urged, getting on his tiptoes to kiss Grantaire’s lips.

                Grantaire sighed, pulling Enjolras into a deep kiss and hoping that he would drop the matter. Being Enjolras, he didn’t, and eyed Grantaire questioningly as they parted.

                “I’m just… I think I’m a little bit jealous of Feuilly, that’s all”, he shrugged.

                Enjolras eyed him with something that could only be described as amusement.

                “ _Feuilly?_ ” he asked, a smile playing on his lips. Grantaire turned his head away, flushing, but Enjolras waited until he found the courage to look him in the eye again. “There’s never been anything between Feuilly and me”.

                “I know”, Grantaire rolled his eyes, even though he hadn’t known.

                Enjolras got on his tiptoes to kiss him again, smiling as he did so.

                “There’s no need to be jealous of him”, he reassured, squeezing Grantaire’s hand. “What do you feel like eating? They serve dinners at the Musain at night; we can go there if you’d like”.

                “That’s fine by me”, Grantaire managed a smile.

                As Enjolras went to his room to change, Grantaire allowed himself to sit back on the couch, staring absentmindedly at Enjolras’ TV. It was turned off, and the knowledge that it would probably not show static if he turned it on made him feel suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. What was he _doing_? How could he be so hideously cruel to the point of leading Enjolras on like that, while holding the knife that would stab him on the back? Even if he gave Montparnasse misleading information, the man would still possess all the power needed to destroy Grantaire’s life for good.

                Plus, Enjolras was pure. He was naïve, innocent and a virgin; Grantaire, on the other hand, was already ruined and would only maculate Enjolras if he indulged on this relationship. He needed out, he needed to escape from both Enjolras and Montparnasse before it was too late, before he was either irrevocably stuck on this relationship or irrevocably doomed by the Patron-Minette. He was a coward, and he hadn’t been born to deal with situations like that. As much as he loved Enjolras, he couldn’t be with him, precisely because he loved him too much. He deserved better than Grantaire.

                And then Enjolras appeared on the living room, wearing tight red pants and a clingy shirt that read “Anarchist on the sheets”, and how could Grantaire ever resist that temptation? Enjolras was like a pagan god that was sent specially to tempt him, to turn his brain into a mess and make him have unholy thoughts that he deserved to be punished for. There was nothing in his life that he could ever do to be deserving of Enjolras, to make him proud, but just seeing him look that beautiful exclusively for Grantaire made him want to at least try. And that was more than he usually did.

                They had a pleasant lunch, and made sure they didn’t display affection in public, since homosexuality was forbidden by law under the penalty of public execution. But Grantaire did watch with affection as Enjolras ranted as quietly as he could about the unfairness of the dictatorship while they waited for the food.

                “I just can’t understand what must go through these people’s minds to come up with something like this”, he said, playing with a napkin on the table. “I mean, I do understand, but I just can’t accept it”.

                “Well, I guess that’s how the world works”, Grantaire had shrugged. “A bunch of unacceptable things that are thrown on your face and that you can do nothing about”.

                Enjolras had scoffed then, rolling his eyes.

                “Conformity is not my strongest suit. While I am alive, I will fight for the basic rights of my fellowmen”.

                “Getting yourself killed for something you can’t change is not brave or innovative, it’s just stupid”.

                “And who says I can’t change it?”, Enjolras had raised an eyebrow. Grantaire allowed his mouth to slip shut. Even if he wanted to argue about the subject, he didn’t want to ruin their night.

                “Aren’t you afraid to go out wearing that shirt?” he asked, gesturing at the shirt with his chin. He had noticed the way that the waitress had eyed him.

                “There are only friends here at the Musain”, Enjolras shrugged. “If they were to delate me, it would be for things way worse than the shirt”.

                “And do you mean it?”, Grantaire rose an eyebrow.

                “Hm?”

                “The shirt”, he smirked, feeling oddly confident. “Are you really an anarchist on the sheets?”

                Enjolras blushed, lowering his head. Grantaire thought he had embarrassed him into shyness, but despite of his reddened cheeks, Enjolras looked back up and stared at him straight in the eye as he said:

                “Why don’t you try and find out?”

                He thanked a deity he didn’t believe in as the waitress arrived with their food and prevented him from needing to answer.

                After they had finished eating their lunch, Grantaire walked Enjolras back to his building – not that it was too far away – and watched as he climbed the stairs to his apartment. He couldn’t help but to smile when Enjolras stopped and turned around to wave him goodbye. Neither of them mentioned the shirt again.

                They wouldn’t be able to text about their feelings, since most electronical conversations were watched by the government. That meant that Grantaire would have to quietly pine until the next ABC meeting, leaving him with enough time for his head to convince him that dating Enjolras was a bad idea – which it was – and that he should do something really stupid.

                On his way home, he passed a closed department store and saw his reflection on the window after years of ignoring it.

                His hair looked like a bird nest. He remembered that Éponine cut it sometimes, but it had been long ago and the hair had already grown enough to cover his ears. In the past, he always kept it short, both because his mother liked it better and because he didn’t want to look like a homeless person. Now, he didn’t look exactly homeless, but the dark circles under his eyes and the pale complexion of his skin made him look sick. Plus, his face was thinner than he ever remembered seeing it, as if he hadn’t eaten properly in years, and his green hoodie, which used to fit him perfectly, was hanging from his pitiful frame as if he was a malnourished ragdoll. The tight pants he had put on weren’t so tight as he had thought, and he looked like a messier, thinner version of what he remembered himself to be. The thinness of his face made his cheekbones stick out, which only made his hideous nose look even bigger and his face, uglier. The unshaved five-o’clock beard was making him look older than he was, and his chapped lips gave him an even more unhealthy tone. He found that, after years of refusing to look himself in the mirror, he couldn’t turn away from his reflection now that he was seeing it. He had probably been standing in front of the closed store’s window for too long, because a police man from a nearby patrol approached him and asked him what he was doing. Even as he absentmindedly shrugged him off and walked away – something dangerous that not many people had the balls to do – he couldn’t take the image of his own face away from his head.

                When had he become that misshapen thing that took his place? He used to be chubby, always with a flushed face and a well-trimmed hair, and even if having bags under his eyes wasn’t so uncommon to him, now they felt intrusive and sickening. He looked like a shell of himself – no wonder why Joly had looked so terrified and worried when he first saw him back at the Musain – and, to people who had known him before, it was obvious that his life had gone downhill. He wandered through the streets for a long time, the possibility of being arrested for vagrancy not even crossing his mind as he searched for a window, any window, that could provide him a reflection of himself for long enough to check whether he looked that ugly and pathetic or not. What could Enjolras have possibly seen on him? Just like it had happened with his art room, he postponed opening it for so long that when he finally did, he couldn’t leave it anymore. Now that he had seen his image after such a long time, he wanted to keep staring at the ugliness of it until his eyes bled.

                The streets were filled with patrols, though, and Grantaire didn’t want to recur to Montparnasse for being arrested over something as trivial as looking at his own self. Instead, he stopped by a convenience store to buy a mirror, however small it was, and ended up buying himself some food, too. He faintly remembered Enjolras’ voice telling him to eat properly a few days before, and decided to oblige. He bought some snacks and some pasta, that he promised himself to try and cook for dinner. He tried not to feel too guilty for buying a bottle of vodka, too.

                As soon as he stepped inside his apartment, though, the sound of the static hit him so hard that he dropped the bags he was holding.

                What was he thinking?

                Was he really that naïve to the point of thinking that, after a few kisses and a love confession, his life would get back on tracks and improve in a hundred percent? Was he really allowing himself to stupidly _hope_ that he would easily get rid of Montparnasse and live a happy, fulfilling life with Enjolras? Even if Enjolras really loved him as he said he did, he would never forgive Grantaire for lying and fooling him and his group like that, and he’d rather never have Enjolras than to have him just to lose him.

                Despair filled him and he found himself kicking his coffee table in frustration, before grabbing the vodka bottle from the forgotten bag and pouring himself a drink with shaky hands. All the happiness of the afternoon spent with Enjolras was gone in the blink of an eye, and not even the phantom memory of the blonde’s lips against his was enough to dry the tears that were pooling in his eyes. There was nothing in that world he wanted more than to get rid of Montparnasse forever and to get together with Enjolras, but that just wasn’t possible. He had gotten himself too deep into this shit, and there was no way to leave without getting either himself or Enjolras killed.

                The alcohol burned his throat and he rejoiced on the small pain, allowing a sob to erupt from his chest and echo through the static-filled apartment. He hated himself for ever allowing himself to hope. He always took good care not to hope, not to expect anything good from anyone. And he had actually believed that he could make things work out well, that he could pretend that he had never betrayed Enjolras and that he could love and be loved without paying any price for it. He hated himself more than ever, the image of his own pathetic face making him sob even harder. The static served as a reminder of the worthless piece of shit that he was, unable to function properly on a society, unable to have a job, unable to pay his bills, unable to take a stand and unable to allow himself to believe in anything at all.

                But he believed in Enjolras.

                For no reason at all, he believed in Enjolras. He didn’t believe in change, and improvements or on charity, but he found himself believing that, if those things were possible, that would be because of Enjolras. Enjolras, who was charming and beautiful and young, and no matter how naïve, he was also fierce. He was determined and focused and so terribly good that Grantaire wanted to protect him from all the evil things in the world that would probably try and ruin him for good just like they had done to Grantaire.

                But, sparing some thought into it, Grantaire was one of the evil things in the world that would ruin Enjolras.

                What made him evil? What made him so despicable; the “scum of the Earth” as Montparnasse enjoyed calling him? When had he stopped being that jolly, sociable, nice person that he used to be in the past? What had turned him into this barely-recognizable thing that he saw in the reflection of an abandoned store in the street?

                He knew the answer to those questions. He knew who had turned him into what he was.

                And he didn’t want to be that anymore.

                If he said the words a day before, he would have scoffed at himself and declared insanity, but now, after that afternoon, he knew he had a good, tangible chance with Enjolras. The idea sounded foolish to his own ears, but Enjolras’ declaration of love and the kisses they had shared were enough to motivate him to put own his shoes and leave the apartment, already tipsy by the amount of alcohol he had consumed in such a short time. He wanted to be worthy of Enjolras. He wanted to deserve his love.

                Even if going cold turkey killed him, why should he care? He would be dying for Enjolras’ love, and was there any better reason for him to go? He had been thinking about quitting for a long time, about letting go of his addiction for once and giving his life a new start. But the overwhelming weight of depression and hopelessness kept him on his comfort zone, on the darkness and the static that always protected him from having to face himself. That was why he never looked himself in mirrors; because denying that he was fucked up was a protection blanked against the cold reality. Because if he didn’t see what he had become, he wouldn’t have to do something about it.

                But Enjolras had been like a spark in Grantaire’s darkness, and he couldn’t deny the truth any longer. He couldn’t ignore his reflection anymore. Enjolras was what he wanted but could never be, but he could at least try to be someone that Enjolras could have some reason to love.

                He could only hope that Joly still lived at the same place he did when they were young.

                He stumbled his way across the dark streets – it was already night? How did time pass so fast? –, leaning heavily on walls and lampposts so that he would not fall and injure himself further. Memories of Enjolras and touches and kisses were what kept him going, what kept him from running back to the comforting darkness of his apartment and the lulling static of his TV. He was being offered one chance to become a better person, to partially repent for his sins, and to be good for the man he had fallen in love with. If not for himself, he would do that for Enjolras.

                He didn’t even know what time it was, but he found himself knocking at the door of the apartment that used to be Joly’s, only hoping that he still resided there. He only realized that he was probably still weeping, face damp and reddish, when the door opened and a confused, bed-haired Joly opened the door, blinking rapidly to focus on the wreck of a man leaning on the doorframe in front of him.

                “R?” he asked, voice hoarse, and Grantaire cursed himself for bothering Joly like that; he didn’t even know what time it was. He had probably woken him up, which was a bad start in his utopic path of becoming a better person. “Is everything ok?”

                “I want to quit”, Grantaire said simply, and a shaky breath that he didn’t know that he had been holding escaped his lungs.

                It felt as if a weight had been lifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so bad i apologize in advance


	8. Chapter 8

                He had never been more wrong.

                Joly welcomed him with a warm smile and a tight hug, and Grantaire, in his foolish short-lived span of hope, believed that things would be ok. He didn’t bother texting Montparnasse to tell him where he’d be on the following days; even if the whole withdrawal thing lasted long, it was improbable that the man would look for him in person. He was already, somewhat, abstinent, since he hadn’t snorted in nearly one day. It wasn’t much, but it was already a start.

                Musichetta alterned nights at Joly’s and at Bossuet’s, since the three of them living together could bring up unwanted attention even though there was no way to prove that they were in a polyamorous relationship. The young doctor kindly asked his lover to go to Bossuet’s for a few nights, since Grantaire’s state would probably become ugly soon and he’d rather preserve his friend’s privacy (why Joly would prefer to help a puking, feverish Grantaire instead of spending the nights with his girlfriend was beyond the cynic. He preferred not to put much though into it, in order to not get stressed out).

                He knew exactly what to expect of the withdrawal, but it didn’t make it any better. Now that he thought about it, maybe it would have been better not to know what to expect. He distantly remembered someone telling him that things hurt less when you didn’t expect the pain.

                On the first night at Joly’s, he didn’t text Enjolras at all. They had no programs scheduled and therefore, there would be no suspicions regarding his disappearance. On the second day, when his limbs felt heavier and his nose wouldn’t stop leaking with coryza, Enjolras texted him inviting him over, but Grantaire dismissed him with a shitty excuse about having the flu. He didn’t push the situation and Grantaire was thankful for it; the last thing he needed on that moment was Enjolras inviting himself over.

                By the third day, he was sustaining a skull-splitting headache from the sleepless nights he’d spent, and his muscles wouldn’t stop twitching and aching.  He had asked Joly for a pain killer then, unable to bear the pain on his still bruised ribs – god, when had he become so weak? – and the doctor provided him a single aspirin and a cup of tea. It had nearly no effect on him, but Joly refused to give him more for the time being.

                With the sleepless nights, hours and days started to merge together. Just like the last time, he had promised himself to keep track of the passage of time, but around the fourth or fifth day – he couldn’t remember exactly which – he found himself lost. He constantly asked Joly how much time had passed and the man always replied patiently, only for Grantaire to forget in his confused state and ask again a few hours later. A fever soon set itself in, making him shiver and curl himself around useless blankets that weren’t enough to warm him up, despite of Joly’s statement that he was burning hot. He felt miserable, sick and in pain, and for fuck’s sake, not even a week had passed and he was already thinking about giving up.

                After a few days – or hours, did it really make a difference? – Joly told him that it was meeting day. Grantaire would obviously be unable to attend, and the thought of seeing disappointment and anger aimed towards him on Enjolras’ expression made him curl around himself more tightly. Joly wouldn’t attend, either – he wanted to keep a close eye on Grantaire and he didn’t trust him under anyone else’s care. But Joly never skipped meetings, and their friends would wonder and question their absence.

                “R, can you hear me?”, Joly asked, gently touching his shoulder and rising him from his lethargic state on the bed. His brow was sweaty for many reasons and he could smell the foul scent that his body was emanating, a scent of sickness and death. He slowly turned his head to stare at Joly with dull eyes, ignoring the way they teared up at the movement and the pressure that seemed to be constant under his nose. He didn’t answer Joly – his throat would probably be torn into shreds if he spoke – but the small movement was enough for him to continue. “I wanted to speak with you about something serious”.

                Grantaire let out a sigh. The last thing he wanted to do on that moment was to speak, but he lacked the energy to protest, either. He merely stared at Joly, faintly hoping that he would go away.

                “The meeting will start in a couple hours”, Joly announced, biting his lower lip nervously. “But if I don’t tell the guys why I won’t be attending, they’ll probably come over to check on me without calling first. I…”, he took in a deep breath. “Look, they know me very well and they can tell when I’m lying. But I won’t tell them the truth without your consent, either”.

                Grantaire frowned at him, swallowing dry and wincing as he did so. Joly wanted to tell his friends that Grantaire was a morphine addict?

                What would Enjolras think of him?

                The reason Grantaire had decided to go through this was because he didn’t want Enjolras to know. He didn’t want Enjolras to be stuck with a junkie as pathetic as he was, he didn’t want Enjolras to despise him even though he had all the reason in the world to do so.

                “No”, he croaked weakly, helplessly trying to prop himself into a half-sitting half-lying position so that he could drink some water. Joly understood what he was doing and helped him, lifting the cup to his chapped lips and holding the back of his head as he tilted it back to drink it. The water felt cool on his sore throat, relieving a bit of the pain, but as soon as the liquid reached his stomach it churned and protested. That was another shitty part of going cold turkey. He couldn’t hold anything in his stomach for over an hour, and vomiting had somewhat become a constant part of his days now. There was even an emergency bucket by the bed. He resumed drinking the water and braced himself for the difficult task of speaking as Joly eased him back down on the bed.

                “R…”

                “Enjolras can’t know”, he mustered, voice hoarse and constricted. He closed his eyes in pain.

                “But R…”, Joly started, sounding unsure. A long time passed before he continued, the only sound in the room being Grantaire’s ragged breathing. “What is going on between the two of you?”, Joly asked, voice merely above a whisper. Grantaire realized that he never told Joly about his want-to-be relationship with Enjolras. And should he? Did Enjolras want to keep it a secret?

                Hesitation made his heart beat faster and with the anxiety came the panting. There was no reason for him to be that freaked out by a simple question, but soon he was hyperventilating on the bed and Joly was uselessly trying to calm him down.

                “It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to”, he was saying, trying to ease Grantaire. “Just know that you can trust me, ok? I’m going to tell them I feel indisposed or something”.

                Grantaire didn’t remember much of what had happened after that. He probably passed out of exhaustion – the only thing that could lull him to sleep, now. When his consciousness returned to him, there was light seeping into the bedroom through the curtains, and he weakly had to make a run to the bathroom to attend to nature’s call. Getting out of the bathroom and back to the bed was even more difficult, and he found himself leaning heavily against the wall of the hallway and slowly slipping to the floor when his legs became too weak to sustain him upright. That’s how Joly found him half an hour later when he woke up, and had to carry the larger man by himself back to his own bed. He needed to change the bedsheets of the guest room where Grantaire was residing, and probably urge the cynic to take a shower. Grantaire slept through the whole exchange, and when he woke up was to see Joly trying to feed him something that looked and smelled like a broth. He felt childish when he turned his head away, but Joly was persistent when he had to be. Grantaire ended up eating half of the thing before grabbing the emergency bucket and throwing up.

                Now that the guest room was more presentable and refreshed by the open window, Joly convinced Grantaire to take a shower. Keeping him upright inside the shower cabin was a difficult task, but Grantaire couldn’t deny that he felt the tiniest bit better after it. He no longer smelled terribly bad, and the cold water had returned him some of his sobriety.

                That didn’t last for long, though. On that night, a high fever set in, and Joly found himself unable to take care of a delirious Grantaire alone.

                “R, please, sit still”, he was begging the cynic, who was twisting and contorting on the bed as Joly placed cold damp cloths all over his body to try and bring his temperature down. If his fever didn’t break, Joly would need to take him to a hospital. “Please, I know it hurts but you have to stay quiet”.

                “Enjolras”, was all Grantaire ever muttered to the requests, growing quiet for a few minutes before starting to fidget again.

                A small seizure hit him in the middle of the night, and Joly was growing more and more nervous with the situation. He knew of the risks he was taking when he offered his help and he was aware that a god-knows-how-many-years-long addiction wouldn’t be easy to get rid of. But seeing Grantaire like that, seizing and hallucinating from the high fever, was something that broke his heart.

                Grantaire’s phone buzzed with new texts that he couldn’t reply to and that Joly couldn’t read because he didn’t know the phone’s password, but that he knew were from Enjolras and a person called Montparnasse. Enjolras had been calling Joly like crazy, asking about Grantaire’s state – Joly had told the Amis that Grantaire had come down with a nasty flu and that he was helping the man back into health. He only hoped that Grantaire wouldn’t be mad at him for doing so, but he didn’t tell anyone about the morphine. The only ones who suspected were Musichetta and Bossuet, because Joly was a terrible liar when it came to other people and a horrid liar when it came to his lovers. But he never mentioned drugs or abstinence, because Grantaire had asked him not to and despite everything, Grantaire was still his friend.

                But now Grantaire was on death’s door and Joly didn’t know what to do to help him anymore. If his fever didn’t break overnight, he would _have_ to take him to a hospital.

                Morning came and Joly found himself exhausted from the sleepless night, but he couldn’t get away from Grantaire’s bedside in fear of something happening in his absence. The fever had lowered but it hadn’t broken, which was enough to allow Joly’s eyes to slip close but not for him to fall asleep. He was dozing off on the chair beside the bed, Grantaire deep in an uneasy sleep, when a knock on the door brought Joly out of his stupor and sent him to his feet with a jolt. He stretched his sore muscles before leaving the bedroom, opening the door with a hard pull to reveal Combeferre and Enjolras waiting on his doormat.

                “Hey Joly”, Combeferre greeted, fake lightheartedness clear in his tone. Behind him, Enjolras was biting on his nails. “We thought we’d come over to see how Grantaire is doing. Enjolras made him soup”, he said, lifting his hand that was holding a plastic bag and handing it over to Joly, who took it with confusion.

                “Uh, sure. Come in”, Joly said, stepping aside so that the pair could enter the apartment.

                “How is he?” Enjolras asked him as Joly set the soup on the kitchen table and grabbed the visitors a glass of water. He felt uneasy. Convincing Enjolras that Grantaire had a flu would be easy, but Combeferre was a man with a medical training, just like Joly. With a close look, he would be able to realize what was really going on with the cynic, and Joly had never been good at bearing the weight of lying.

                “Honestly, he’s not doing so great”, Joly answered, missing the way Enjolras’ face went pale. “He has a fever that refuses to break and if he doesn’t get better I’ll need to take him to a hospital”.

                “I…”, Enjolras hesitated. “I thought it was just a flu”.

                “Yeah”, Joly said, hoping that his answer would be ambiguous enough. “He’s asleep right now, but I think he’ll be happy to see you. He’s been calling your name”, he said without thinking. Damn his sleep deprivation. Cursing himself, he led Enjolras and Combeferre to the guest room, rubbing his eyes in tiredness. Grantaire had turned to the side and was curled into a ball on the bed, blankets pulled up to his chin. He had managed to knock down every single cloth from his body. With a resigned sigh, Joly bent over to pick the cloths and to replace them against Grantaire’s brow. The cynic winced in discomfort.

                “No”, he protested, weakly trying to get away from the touch.

                “Shh, R, easy”, Joly said, as he had grown used to during the last night. “I know this sucks but you need to keep it in place in order to get better ok?”

                “Hnng”, he moaned, eyes shutting tightly before opening, revealing dilated pupils and an unfocused gaze. “Had I known that Asclepius would be so cruel, I would have chosen Hades’ mercy long ago and willingly grabbed Hermes’ hands”.

                “He’s weirdly eloquent while feverish”, Joly explained absentmindedly, noticing Combeferre and Enjolras’ confused shared look.

                “When else should I be eloquent?” Grantaire groaned, eyelids closing again. “At least in insanity I can find more sense than in reality. I can feel Dionysus and Morpheus fighting for my attention, tempting me with the offers of madness and sleep, and yet I think I should prefer Hades’ embrace at last”.

                “Stop that, you’re not going to die”, Joly protested, damping more cloths to place below Grantaire’s armpit.

                “So you would not grant me even that? You are a cruel man, Joly”, he whined, turning back on his other side and knocking down the cloths again, making Joly sigh in frustration. Grantaire knew how to be a pain in the ass.

                “Let me”, Enjolras offered, finally approaching the bed from where he had been standing in the corner of the room. Joly eyed him curiously but allowed Enjolras to step in, taking one of the cloths from Joly’s hand and kneeling on floor in front of the bed so that he’d be face to face with Grantaire. “Hey, R”, he greeted, voice bearing a sweet tone that was rare on Enjolras. Joly and Combeferre exchanged looks. Upon hearing Enjolras’ voice, Grantaire’s eyes opened once more.

                “Apollo”, he whispered, with something that could only be described as adoration in his voice. His dull eyes regained some of their sparkle and his breath caught in his throat.

                “Enjolras”, Enjolras corrected, but there was no harshness in his tone, only worry. He placed the cloth against Grantaire’s brow and, despite wincing, he didn’t move. “What have you gotten yourself into, hm?”

                Grantaire groaned instead of answering, shifting as if he wanted to get closer to Enjolras. His sluggish mind was no longer working properly, and the ethereal light surrounding Enjolras’ frame made him unsure whether he was hallucinating or not.

                “Don’t worry”, Enjolras continued, gently lifting one of Grantaire’s arms so that he could place another cloth below his armpit. “You’re going to be just fine. I will take care of you”.

                “Why would you bother?”, Grantaire muttered through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to get the coldness away from his body. He was burning and freezing at the same time, as if he was being torn apart from the inside.

                “Because I love you”, Enjolras said matter-of-factly, placing a kiss on the tip of Grantaire’s nose. Joly and Combeferre exchanged a look – neither of them had seen the leader act like that towards anyone.

                “Joly, could I have a word?” Combeferre asked, wanting to give the pair some privacy and taking the opportunity to discuss some matters with Joly. The man nodded, gesturing for Combeferre to exit the room first. Enjolras barely noticed their absence, focusing on putting the cloths on Grantaire’s burning skin. His eyes had slipped shut once more, but he was frowning in discomfort.

                “Enjolras”, he breathed out the name like a prayer. Enjolras blushed, and pushed Grantaire’s curls back with affection before placing the last cloth on his brow. His hand lingered on the joint where Grantaire’s neck and shoulder connected, despite of the hotness emanating from his skin.

                “I’m here, R”, he reassured. There was not much else that he could say. Enjolras was an eloquent man, composed and even somewhat shy when it came to the matters of love. In fact, he had never loved before, but Grantaire… Grantaire was something else. He caused an effect on Enjolras that he had never experienced in his life. Understanding that it was love demanded external help, but still, when he did, he made sure that Grantaire knew it, even if he went on a little bit wrong on that matter. But he was still unexperienced on the whole romantic-relationship issue, as much as he pretended not to be – he remembered the teasing comment about his shirt that he had made to Grantaire – and, being a person who had always lacked a bedside manner, there was not much that Enjolras could tell the feverish, delusional Grantaire.

                “I’m sorry, Apollo”, Grantaire groaned with something that could sound like a sob, trying to hide his face against his pillow. Enjolras shushed him, allowing himself to caress the curls on the back of the cynic’s neck. Since his knees were hurting from the uncomfortable position that Enjolras had taken on the floor, he got to his feet and sat on the edge of Grantaire’s bed. The surface around the man was hot, probably due to the irradiation of the heat of his skin, and Enjolras took the cloth on Grantaire’s brow so that he could spread its dampness along his face and bare chest.

                “Sorry for what?”, Enjolras asked absentmindedly, focusing on cooling Grantaire down.

                Grantaire only groaned in response, whimpering weakly as he turned to lie on his back. Enjolras readjusted the cloths with a sigh, but from the way Grantaire’s mouth went slack and his ragged breathing evened out somehow, he assumed that the man had fallen asleep.

                Joly and Combeferre returned to the room them, Combeferre’s face looking weird in a way that Enjolras couldn’t explain, and Joly’s brow twisting in worry as he saw Grantaire’s sleeping form. He approached the bed, completely ignoring Enjolras, and placed a hand against Grantaire’s neck and brow to check his temperature. His lips formed a thin line and he shook his head.

                “What?”, Enjolras asked, worried. He sat up straighter on the bed. “What is it?”

                “He’s still too hot”, he said, looking up to meet Combeferre’s gaze. “He needs a cold shower”.

                At this, Grantaire’s unfocused eyes opened and blinked sluggishly, searching for Joly for longer than they should have before finally finding the man.

                “Joly”, he slurred, seeming and sounding too out of it for Enjolras’ liking.

                “Yes, R, it’s me”, Joly reassured, removing the cloths carefully and unbuttoning Grantaire’s pants.

                “Please”, he muttered, voice sounding so small in comparison to before that he looked like a different man altogether.

                Joly knew what Grantaire was asking him. It wasn’t the first time, since the fever settled in, that he asked – begged, implored – for morphine, but Joly couldn’t give it to him. He just couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to throw away almost a week of progress by giving Grantaire what he was so desperate for. Instead of answering the man, he removed his pants with just a bit of difficulty, leaving Grantaire completely naked except for his boxers, and exposing his hot body to the chilly air of the room. He shivered, trying to curl into a ball, and Joly just had to exchange a look with Combeferre to make the man jump into action.

                “No”, Grantaire protested when Combeferre touched his arms with tenderness, shrugging the touch off.

                “This is for your own good, Grantaire”, Combeferre tried to reason to no avail. Grantaire’s face sunk into his pillow and his fingers clenched the bedsheets as tightly as he could muster in his weakened state.

                “Joly”, Grantaire called, desperation filling his tone. “Please, just a little bit, I swear I won’t ask again, I just need a little bit…”

                “Grantaire, you know I can’t do that”, Joly answered absentmindedly, unknotting Grantaire’s fingers from the sheets as gently as he could. “It’s almost over; don’t give up now”.

                “I can’t do this”, Grantaire moaned as Combeferre, a stronger man than Joly, lifted him up from the bed and sustained most of his weight. Joly was quickly by the pair’s side, sharing the weight of Grantaire’s mostly limp body and helping him carry the semi-conscious man to the bathroom. Enjolras followed them out of the bedroom, confused and worried.

                “I’m going to die”, Grantaire whined weakly as Combeferre helped him inside Joly’s bathtub. Being too weak to sustain himself upright, Grantaire slid down until he was sitting on the empty tub, already shivering and quivering his lip.

                “You’re not”, Joly reassured, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “You’ll be just fine. You’re doing great so far, R, I’m so proud of you. We all are”.

                “I know it hurts, R”, Combeferre told him, tone reassuring, leaning over Joly and reaching for the drain of the tub. “But it will only hurt for a bit, and then it will get better ok?”

                “No, please”, Grantaire muttered weakly just as Combeferre turned the water on. He jolted in surprise as the cold water connected with his skin, allowing a sob to escape his throat. As the water rose inside the tub, Grantaire grew more and more unquiet, mustering all his strength to attempt to escape and being stopped by both Joly’s and Combeferre’s hands. “Please, p-please, let me go, I’m f-f-freezing”, he was begging, but as much as it hurt Joly, he couldn’t let him go.

                And then Enjolras, who had been standing at the back of the bathroom until then, merely watching the scene instead of taking a stand, stepped into the scene, chin raised and back erect in that way that challenged anyone to defy him. He didn’t even think about removing his clothes before stepping inside the bathtub, wincing at the coldness of the water, and sitting down directly in front of Grantaire, who was eyeing him with suspicion and confusion. Once he was fully sat down in the tub, water level reaching his clothed chest and coldness sipping through his skin, he reached for Grantaire’s hand and held it tightly.

                “I’m here”, Enjolras told him. “I’m with you”.

                “Apollo, p-please”, Grantaire breathed out, lips quivering, squeezing Enjolras’ hand back. “They’re trying to k-kill me”.

                “It will be over soon”, Enjolras reassured, leaning forward so that he could brush a stray curl away from Grantaire’s eyes. He stayed in that position even though it made his back ache, his other hand rubbing Grantaire’s arm softly. “Just don’t resist them. Try to relax, ok?”

                “C-can’t”, Grantaire protested, head leaning heavily against the bathroom tiles. “Too cold”.

                “Well, why don’t I distract you, then?” Enjolras smiled softly, adjusting himself inside the tub. Joly announced that he would grab Enjolras some dry clothes and a towel, and Combeferre followed him out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind him. “Did you know I’m a terrible cook?”

                Grantaire chuckled weakly at this, staring at Enjolras through half-lidded eyes.

                “I figured t-that much”, he said. “You’re always asking F-Feuilly to cook for you”.

                “That’s because Feuilly is an amazing cook”, Enjolras smiled, heat rising to his face. “But anyway. There is only one thing that I can cook”, he said, taking his hands away from Grantaire to form a cup using his palms. “May I?” he asked, and Grantaire took in a deep, preparative breath before nodding. Enjolras slowly allowed the water that had cupped inside his palms to run down Grantaire’s hair and neck, making him shiver from the coldness. He didn’t protest otherwise. “As I was saying”, Enjolras continued, trying his best to keep Grantaire distracted even if it was just a little bit. He repeated the cupping action and allowed the water to run down Grantaire’s hair once more. “There is only one thing that I can cook and it’s soup. Would you like to know how I learned that?” he asked, allowing the water to run down Grantaire’s head again.

                “Sure, ‘Pollo”, Grantaire slurred, eyes slipping close as he allowed Enjolras to damp his hair.

                “Well, one day when I was really young, I must have been 13 or 14, I wanted to help a charity organization that was distributing food for the homeless”, Enjolras said, continuing to damp Grantaire’s hair. Upon realizing that it was already wet enough, he begun to massage his scalp, if only to help him forget the cold for a little while. Grantaire hummed, content. “But then I made a little research on the leaders of the organization and found out that they intended to charge the people to cover for the cost of the food. It wasn’t too expensive, it was one or two bucks, but still… some of those people didn’t have even that, and it was outrageous that they called their work charity when they charged for it”. The righteous fury was beginning to sip into Enjolras’ tone, Grantaire could tell without having to look into his eyes. “Plus, I found out that they were doing that as a political campaign for the upcoming election for mayor, so I decided to put a little stand right across the street from theirs, in which I’d serve completely free food for the homeless. But I had never cooked anything, and I didn’t have much time to learn. The easiest recipe I found was soup”, he shrugged with a smile. “So I made several cauldrons of soup and took it to the stand with Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s help. Needless to say we were a huge success, and the opposite organization was extremely pissed off at us for ruining their campaign. Anyway… I never bothered to learn how to cook anything other than soup, and the only soup I can cook is in terribly large quantities”.

                Grantaire chuckled at this, shivering almost completely gone now.

                “I want to taste this revolutionary soup of yours”, he commented.

                “Oh, don’t worry, I brought it to you”, Enjolras smiled. “Joly has it. I ended up with a whole caldron of soup back home, though, so feel free to come eat the rest of it whenever you’re feeling better”.

                Grantaire’s smiled faltered, but Enjolras didn’t have the time to notice it because Joly reentered the bathroom with two towels and spare clothes in hands right on that moment.

                “Let’s see how you’re doing”, he announced, placing the towels on the top of the toilet lid and kneeling down to take Grantaire’s temperature. He hummed contently, getting back to his feet and picking one of the towels. “That’s way better. It should completely break in a few hours now”, he announced with a relieved sigh, shoving his hands down Grantaire’s armpits and hoisting him up with little to no difficulty. Grantaire leaned heavily on the wall behind him, knees buckling from weakness and cold as he allowed Joly to dry him with the towel he held. Once he was no longer soaking wet, he stepped out of the bathtub with Joly’s aid, and then Combeferre appeared on the doorframe, offering a steadying hand to Grantaire and leading him away back to the guest room.

                “You can put these clothes on; they’re Bossuet’s but I think they’ll fit you better than mine”, Joly announced, pointing at the clothes. “Leave your wet ones on the sink. Shout if you need anything”, he said, and turned on his heels to exit the bathroom.

                “Joly”, Enjolras called, still sitting on the water-filled bathtub, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him, at the empty space in which Grantaire had been seating mere seconds ago. The smile he had been sustaining before had been replaced by a grim expression. Joly stopped in his tracks, turning to look at Enjolras, who wasn’t staring at him.

                “Yes, Enjolras?”, he encouraged when the leader didn’t continue.

                Enjolras took in a deep, pensive breath before speaking up.

                “When Grantaire asked for ‘just a little bit’”, he said, finally turning to look at Joly. The water around him moved with a sickening wet sound that echoed on the bathroom. “What did he mean?”

                Joly’s lips shut to form a thin line, and he could no longer look Enjolras in the eyes. He hated keeping things from his friends, but Grantaire was his friend too and he had asked Joly not to tell anyone. Telling Combeferre when the man called him outside the bedroom was already enough of a betrayal to Grantaire’s trust, even though he had known there was no way out of it. Combeferre was not an easy man to fool.

                “It is not my place to tell you, Enjolras”, Joly said. “You should talk to R”.

                And before Enjolras could say anything else, Joly exited the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

                                                                                                              -

                The following days were not easier, but they weren’t as bad, either.

                The fever left and didn’t return, which was a relief to both Joly and Grantaire. But his muscles still ached, and his stomach still churned, and he still had to keep the emergency bucket beside the bed so that he wouldn’t make a mess on Joly’s floor. Some nights, he still couldn’t sleep at all, leaving him exhausted and lethargic on the following day, but gradually, his body grew more used to the abstinence that it had ever gotten. On one day of epiphany, he realized that he had probably gotten rid of the alcohol in his system, too. That made him feel somehow empty inside, as if there was something missing.

                But there was also Enjolras, and whenever he saw his face, the emptiness disappeared.

                Grantaire was well aware that it wasn’t healthy to depend so much on someone as he was depending on Enjolras. His entire happiness – or, a feeling that was close to it – was based on whether or not he spoke to Enjolras on that day. The toxicity of the whole thing made him cringe – he hated depending on others, and needing Montparnasse for years made him wonder how he had ended up jumping from a dependent relationship to another. But Enjolras wasn’t Montparnasse, not even a bit. Enjolras… Enjolras loved him. Because no matter how much difficult he found on accepting that, against facts there are no arguments. Why else would Enjolras make him a cauldron of soup, and go visit him every day after the fever incident, and keep telling him those three words that made his heart warm up and his head feel all fuzzy?

                Enjolras could be anything, but he wasn’t fake. Another reason why he and Grantaire were extreme opposites. He never lied, no matter how harsh the truth was. And that was something that Grantaire could count on.

                If he told Grantaire that he loved him, was because he did.

                And that was enough for him to push his urge to snort to the farthest back of his mind.

                                                                                              -

 

                **From: Montparnasse (28/08) Daily report?**

**From: Montparnasse (29/08) I thought I had made it clear what would happen if you disappointed me again.**

**From: Montparnasse (30/08) You are such a fucking rat. Just know that I had my boys break the shithole you call an apartment to the ground.**

**From: Montparnasse (01/09) You’re really a dumb cunt if you think that we won’t find you. Eventually, you’ll have to get out of whatever hole you hiding in.**

**From: Montparnasse (04/09) I will destroy your life.**

                                                                                              -

                Even Joly noticed the way that Grantaire grew more anxious and unquiet after reading Montparnasse’s texts, even though he didn’t know the reason why the cynic’s behavior had changed. Surely, Grantaire had been anxious through most of the first week of withdrawal, which was a common side effect, but there was something different now, Joly could tell. He seemed… scared.

                Even during the withdrawal, Joly never pressured Grantaire to talk about who had caused those injuries across his bodies. But Joly wasn’t a stupid man; he knew that if Grantaire was that altered out of nowhere, it must have something to do with his aggressors.

                Enjolras, who had taken upon himself to visit Grantaire at least three times a week, was noticing that there was something wrong too. Just like Joly, he didn’t want to pressure the man into talking about what he didn’t want to, but when Grantaire jolted on his seat and dropped a glass that he had been holding just because Joly accidentally slammed the front door too loudly, the young doctor decided that it was too much. He needed to talk to Grantaire and get to know what was going on.

                Enjolras, on the other hand, was dying to know what was going on in his boyfriend’s life – could they call each other that now? – but couldn’t muster the courage necessary to ask him. Grantaire was still too weak from… whatever it was he was going through, and he didn’t want to pressure him. Plus, he had a lot of planning to make, appointments to schedule and meetings to lead. He decided to wait until he wasn’t so busy and until Grantaire was prepared to speak to him. After their date, they only saw each other on Joly’s house, but just seeing Grantaire, even in that precarious health state, was enough for Enjolras to rejoice. He didn’t want to ruin those precious moments they had by asking unwanted questions.

                And then he received a call from Joly, asking him to come over that night after the meeting. How could he say no to that? Joly wouldn’t ask him over unless it was something important, and noticing the nervous way that Grantaire had been acting on the previous days, he figured it had something to do with the cynic.

                But Grantaire was neither dumb nor deaf. And he knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep hiding the truth for much longer. Whenever he passed in front of Joly’s mirror, his eyes naturally averted away from it, but he was gradually becoming less uncomfortable with looking at his own reflection. The memory of the people he had hurt and killed still lingered inside his dull eyes, and were the main reason he always ended up looking away. It didn’t matter that he could bear to stare at his own face for a few seconds now – the things that he did would never go away. And that truth showed clearly on his facial expression.

Some of the withdrawal symptoms were still there – the sore muscles, the sudden nauseas and the runny nose – but they were way less intense now. Soon, he would have no more reason to keep living at Joly’s, and how could he return to his apartment if Montparnasse had really broken it? And even if he hadn’t, how would he be able to sleep there with the knowledge that the Patron-Minette could break into his house at any given moment and kill him in his sleep?

                No. Grantaire couldn’t return, but he couldn’t stay at Joly’s without good reason, either.

                But now he had Enjolras’ love. Now he had a relationship, even if a little unhealthy, with the man he loved most in the world. If he told them – anyone – the truth, he would be doomed forever. If he had been afraid that the Amis would discover his lies when he had nothing to lose, now he was terrified to the bone. If he lost Enjolras, he would lose everything.

                The only plausible way out of this was to envelop himself in even more lies. And even if he knew that he was the scum of the earth for doing so, for lying blatantly to people that cared about him, he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t have their hate, not Enjolras’, not Joly’s, not anyone’s.

                So when Enjolras arrived later that evening, Grantaire already had an entire story formed inside his head.

                He was so goddamn stupid. Why did he insist on doing that? Why did he have this horrible habit of ruining his own life? Montparnasse vowed to ruin his life and he wasn’t a man to break his promises. He’d be better off just telling Enjolras and the Amis the truth from the very beginning, to get rid of that heavy weight that was crushing his chest and to stop being a lying piece of shit for once.

                But just the thought of seeing disappointment and anger in Enjolras’ eyes was enough for him to coward into the comforting shadows of his lies.

                Joly and Enjolras, along with Combeferre, who had accompanied the leader all the way from the Musain, sat on the living room of Joly’s apartment in front of Grantaire. They all looked very serious and somewhat stern, but Grantaire tried not to be too intimidated by that. He was still weak from the withdrawal; if everything went wrong, he could always claim that he was indisposed and flee from the conversation.

                God. He was so pathetic.

                “R”, Joly was the one who started, of course, because despite everything, he was the one who knew him longest and closest. “We are here because we need to talk to you”.     

                “I know”, Grantaire replied, straightforward. He would usually have bantered and teased, but his nervousness was keeping him from doing anything too risky. “And I know what you want to talk about”.

                “And do you want to talk about it?” Combeferre asked, raising a single eyebrow.

                “No”, Grantaire scoffed. “But does that really make a difference to any of you?”

                “Yes, it does”, Enjolras affirmed. “We won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to”.

                Grantaire took in a deep breath. If he was going to do this, he’d better do it all at once.

                His death was already guaranteed. Anything other than that wouldn’t be too bad.

                Would it?

                “I met Montparnasse right after I graduated from highschool and my art started to sell”, he started, not looking at any of them in the eye. “Joly knows that. Even though I was young, I was good at what I did, and I started to make a lot of money real fast. Nobody at the art studio liked me, though. I think they were envious that I was making so much success. I never had many friends, just a few, close ones, so yeah, I guess you could say that I have a little confidence problem when it comes to friendships. No wonder I said yes straight away when this guy from the art studio invited me to a party at a nightclub. I don’t even remember his name, if I’m being honest”.

                “Do you have a point?” Combeferre frowned, despite not sounding accusatory. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

                “You wanted to know what I have to tell, didn’t you?”, he raised an eyebrow. “Anyway. We got to the party, which was something I wasn’t used to, and the guy just disappears and leaves me there alone with this bunch of people I don’t know. I try to enjoy it the best I can given the circumstances, and then after some time the guy reappears with this good looking man with a literal top hat and the eyes of the devil. That’s Montparnasse, by the way. He invites me to the back room of the nightclub and I figured I should follow because he looked like he would poison me if I didn’t. I’m sweating to the bone, wondering what the fuck a guy like him could possibly want with someone like me. Turns out it was nothing much; he just wanted me to design him some posters for his college group. I did, and he paid me good”.

                There was a long pause after that, in which Grantaire concentrated on only breathing. Everything that he had said so far was true. What he was about to say was true, too, but he would omit a big, important part of the story, which technically could be considered as lying.

                “He kept giving me posters and designs to make, and he kept paying me for it”, Grantaire said with a self-deprecating smile. “Until he didn’t offer me money anymore”.

                He could hear Joly’s sad sigh, but didn’t dare to look up at any of the men in front of him.

                “At that point, I had already gotten away from Joly. I knew how much he hated those nightclub parties, and to be honest, not even I liked it very much. It was filled with drunk and high people at every corner, and honestly, I was becoming an alcoholic myself. I didn’t want any of that for Joly. And honestly, I was a total dick, and I thought that I didn’t need Joly. I’ll never be able to apologize enough for that”.

                There was only silence.

                “So I thought, well? Why not? I had a lot of money and a lot of success. Why not indulge on some other pleasures as well?”

                He scoffed with disdain at himself.

                “We can all see how well that decision turned out”, he said bitterly. “And then he became my dealer. He’s actually the leader of a gang called Patron-Minette, and since I always did what they asked in exchange for morphine, they asked me to deal drugs for them as a second party. Which I did”, he shrugged. That was true. He only did that for a while, since he didn’t have many trusted customers after Charles X became chancellor. “But then I met you guys and… I realized that I could be much more than a worthless junkie that dealt drugs for morphine”. And that was lie. If he couldn’t bear to look them in the eyes before, he definitely couldn’t do so now. “So I wanted out. But I was in too deep to just simply leave. And then Montparnasse had the Patron-Minette beat me up inside my own apartment”, he scoffed.

                “Oh, Grantaire”, Joly muttered, and the pity and sympathy in his tone made Grantaire’s stomach churn.

                “I decided to quit doing morphine, so… I asked Joly for help. But during the withdrawal, I didn’t contact him at all, so he assumed that I had ran away and texted me saying that he destroyed my apartment and that he’ll kill me. Which means I can’t go back there”, he sighed, resigned.

                There. It was done. There was no turning back now.

                He didn’t actually expect Enjolras to get up and hug him.

                “You will be safe”, Enjolras whispered simply in his ear, caressing his curls. Grantaire wanted to cry. How could he be doing this to Enjolras? Enjolras, who believed him so easily and undoubtedly; who was caressing him and comforting him without asking for anything in return. He didn’t deserve to be touching Enjolras. He didn’t deserve to even be in the same room as him. “You can move in with me. These man will not find you there”.

                “Enjolras…”, he breathed out, uncertain.

                “You don’t have to if you don’t want”, Enjolras said, nose buried against Grantaire’s neck. “And I know this is taking things too fast, and I didn’t mean it like that. But this is a matter of safety”, he planted a soft kiss on Enjolras’ neck. “I don’t want to see you hurt. If you don’t want to stay with me, I’m sure Joly will take you in if you’re not comfortable –“

                “Enjolras”, Grantaire interrupted with a kiss to his boyfriend’s shoulder. “It’s ok”.

                Enjolras leaned back so that he could look Grantaire in the face.

                “If you’re sure about this, I will move in with you”, he said with a patient smile.

                And then Enjolras beamed at him, and he was once more lost. Enjolras wouldn’t be beaming at him like that if he had told him the truth.

                “That’s great!”, he smiled, pulling Grantaire into a tight hug. “You can move in right after the trip, we will need to take some of my books from the back room, but I’m sure that with just one day of preparation we can get everything –“

                “Wait, what?”, Grantaire interrupted with a frown. Enjolras leaned back once more to look at Grantaire, mimicking his frown. “What trip?”, Grantaire asked, confused.

                Enjolras’ frown deepened before his face fell into an expression of understanding and regret.

                “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot you didn’t attend the last meetings”, he explained, breaking their hug and getting out of Grantaire’s lap so that he could sit on the couch beside him. For some reason, Grantaire’s heart ached at the realization that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed that Grantaire wasn’t at the meetings. “We are taking a trip to Nice in three days”, he explained with an excited smile. “Charles X’s right hand man will be there and we have planned a huge protest at one of his public speeches. It’s a conjunct work between Les Amis and a subversive group from Nice. I was going to have it postponed because of your health, but since you seem to be doing better, I thought you could come with us, even if you don’t want to attend the protest. Plus, now that I know about this Montparnasse guy, I won’t leave you alone in here when I can take you with me”.

                Grantaire merely blinked at Enjolras as all the information he’d just been told settled in.

                “And I thought it would be nice”, Enjolras continued, posture changing and denouncing how embarrassed he was. “To go on a trip together. I know we’ve only been dating for a couple weeks but… well”, he blushed, going silent.

                “Enjolras”, Grantaire said, fighting the nausea that was settling inside him. Nothing he ever did in his useless life would ever make him worthy of Enjolras, no matter how he tried. He had just learned – part – of Grantaire’s fucked up past and was still planning to go on trips with him (even if it was mostly because of political interests). He was such a piece of shit and Enjolras deserved so much better than him. Upon the call of his name, the leader looked up with shy eyes. Grantaire wanted to explode. “It’s going to be great”, he said simply, not being able to articulate much else and hoping that the words would be enough to ease Enjolras.

                He enveloped Grantaire into another hug, which he returned. As Enjolras’ scent filled his nostrils, Grantaire pretended that there wasn’t a hollow space inside his chest, slowly eating him alive with the weight of guilt and self-loathing for all his lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying I s2g


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an explicit sex scene at the second half of this chapter. I will put a "~" before and after if for those who don't like this kind of stuff.  
> P.S.: Prepare for the angst

He didn’t bother stopping by his apartment to pick up any clothes for the trip. Just like it had happened with his art room, returning to the empty and probably ruined place seemed impossible and forbidden.

                The apartment had served as a safe refuge for him during the years he felt like his only friends were the darkness and the drugs (he still felt that his friendship with the Amis was somehow forced, but at least he didn’t feel completely lonely now that he allowed Joly back into his life). Returning to the claustrophobically small apartment after being finally freed from its grasp felt like a backtrack that he couldn’t afford on this point of his life, especially during the withdraw. Two weeks had passed since he had last snorted morphine and last drank alcohol, but the symptoms were still there, just not as intense as on the first days. Joly said that they could last for months, which honestly made Grantaire think about giving up that whole abstinence bullshit and just give in to the pleasures that his body ached for.

                But he couldn’t do that, even if he really wanted to. He had burned the remaining of his stash to the ground and the only way to get more would be to contact Montparnasse, which was something unthinkable. He could always go back to just drinking, but just the thought of seeing disappointment on Enjolras’ and Joly’s face upon finding him shitfaced drunk was enough to make him push the idea aside. His fingers still twitched and his body still ached, though, and sometimes he found himself lying awake in a puddle of sweat for hours during the night, throat raw and muscles spasming, making him sob helplessly and beg Joly for things he didn’t dare to name.

                Enjolras made sure to visit him at Joly’s whenever possible during the preparations for the trip to Nice. He was beaming so much with excitement that Grantaire couldn’t help but to smile through his pain, even though he found Enjolras’ efforts to do something to change the status quo worthless. Even so, he couldn’t help but to feel his chest fill with something that could only be described as pure love whenever he saw that beautiful, excited smile on his boyfriend’s lips.

                Mostly, he still felt very guilty for dating and lying to Enjolras. How could he, such a hideous, fake and selfish creature, maculate Enjolras with his impure hands and unholy thoughts? How would he be able to take away Enjolras’ purity with his filthiness? He was ridiculous and pathetic, and Enjolras deserved so much better than Grantaire, but even knowing that, he couldn’t let go. He was disgusting for doing that, for keeping Enjolras to himself under whatever moral sense of fidelity that the leader possessed, but living a life without Enjolras seemed like a life not worth of living.

                How did he get to this point, he wondered sometimes? How did he go from the junkie cynic with no friends and who had never known what love was to this?

                He hadn’t slept well on the three days that followed the announcement of the trip, spending nights awake and thinking about whatever he could have done in his worthless life to be deserving of Enjolras’ love – because Enjolras did love him; there was no doubt about that. Enjolras never lied to anyone, and certainly not about something as serious as that – which ended up on his face getting even more bad-looking than usual. On the morning they would leave for the trip, he found himself staring at his own image in Joly’s bathroom. There was the slightest bit of color in his cheeks, but he still looked pale and exhausted. At least he didn’t look like he was about to die anymore, which he thought of as an improvement. But he was still ugly as fuck, and his huge nose still stuck out of his bony face, and he still didn’t have a clue as to why Enjolras would ever love someone like him.

                He was nervous about returning from Nice. Enjolras had asked Grantaire to move into his apartment when they returned, and surely there was nothing that Grantaire wanted more in his life – to sleep beside Enjolras, to be able to embrace Enjolras whenever he wanted, to kiss him and love him and devote his useless existence to him – but he knew that, eventually, he would become a burden, just like it happened with anyone else. And he wouldn’t bear to watch the sparkle and the love leave Enjolras’ eyes when he looked at him, to be replaced by something unnamable that Enjolras, being kind as he was, would never admit to feeling, but that would be there even so.

                He tried not to put much thought into that, or he’d end up running back and hiding in his comfort zone. Instead, he washed his face and tried to make his unruly hair settle down a bit. He still looked hideous, but somewhat presentable. That’s what he needed to do – take things slowly, one thing at the time. There was no use in stressing about an unforeseeable future – all he could do was wait for it to happen and flow with it. If that was what Enjolras truly wanted, then he’d move in with him when they returned to Paris, and if things didn’t work out, he could always go back to Joly’s ~~or to the morphine~~.

                Since there were too many of them – apparently the ABC had acquired more members throughout Grantaire’s absence on their most recent meetings – they would have to split into different cars. Grantaire was due to go with Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta and Jehan, but when they got to Nice, he’d be at the hotel with Enjolras (a special request from the leader, delivered with a flushed face and trembling hands that indicated his shyness about the whole subject. Grantaire found it adorable). They were registered to different hotels, though. What they were going to do was extremely dangerous, even with the support of more people – starting a protest during the speech of one of the most important members of Charles X’s government wasn’t something as easy to do as one would imagine. People that got caught would at least be arrested, and in a worst case scenario, be publicly executed. That was mostly why Grantaire was going – even if he still felt too weak and thought that the cause they were fighting for was unattainable, he felt the urge to be there and protect Enjolras in case anything happened. His own life was pathetic and worthless, and as much as Enjolras’ ideals were too utopic to ever come true, if there was anyone in this Earth who stood the slightest of chances to change things for the best, this person was Enjolras.

                He didn’t even see Enjolras on that day until they got to Nice, the leader too caught in preparations and organizations to be able to talk to him, especially since they were in different cars. Grantaire slept through most of the trip, Jehan gently caressing his curls and singing softly for him on the car. As much as Joly and Bossuet tried, they couldn’t keep from laughing and speaking very loudly, which didn’t upset Grantaire at all. He had grown to realize that he liked seeing his friends – he could call them that now, couldn’t he? – happy, and he was so exhausted that the sounds didn’t even upset him.

                The only thing that upset him was Montparnasse’s threat that couldn’t seem to stop looming at the back of his head.

                But he shouldn’t worry about that. He didn’t know where Grantaire was living, and who he was living with. He didn’t know where he was, and that way, he couldn’t kill him. He would be ok. He would be ok.

                But he couldn’t hide forever.

                He couldn’t stay inside Enjolras’ or Joly’s apartment without ever leaving in fear of being seen on the street. He couldn’t tense up and be alert 24/7 in fear of having someone break into his bedroom in the middle of the night. He couldn’t be afraid to be by himself on the street because the Patron-Minette knew the places he frequented. He wouldn’t be able to hide forever, even if he wanted to. Eventually, he would have to come out of his hole, just like Montparnasse had said, and he would be caught and die. No, he had to move out of Paris. But how could he possibly leave Enjolras behind?

                Enjolras loved Paris. He would never agree to leaving it unless presented with a good reason, and even then it would be hard to make him leave. The only way to make him change his mind was to tell him the truth, the whole truth, not the altered version about an angry drug dealer that Grantaire had given him. But how could he do that without inevitably breaking Enjolras’ heart?

                His brain begged him to let the subject go and to think about it when he got back to Paris and finally faced his problems, but he couldn’t. He needed to make a decision. Living with that lie was consuming him from the inside out, was making him paranoid and insomniac and an anxious mess. So far, quitting morphine was making him feel shittier than using it, but seeing the pride in his boyfriend’s eyes made it worth it. He didn’t want to lose that, but he couldn’t keep the truth from Enjolras for much longer, either. He wouldn’t be able to justify the fear and the panic forever.

                Plus, Enjolras trusted him. The least that Grantaire could do was give him a reason to.

                He thought about telling him everything when they were finally by themselves on the hotel, but decided against it. He was aware that hearing such news – that Grantaire had been hired to spy on them, that Grantaire had given his enemies information about his group, that Grantaire sold his friends for drugs – would unsettle Enjolras and he needed to be focused for his nearly suicidal mission on the following day. Telling him after the protest would create a tense atmosphere between the cynic and all the Amis on the way back to Paris, which was something that Grantaire wasn’t ready to deal with just yet. The best option was to tell Enjolras when they got back home and Grantaire – awkwardly – moved in, which was somewhat a relief, because it meant that he wouldn’t have to worry about it for the time being.

                As soon as Enjolras finished organizing his clothes on the hotel room’s wardrobe, he allowed himself to fall on the bed beside Grantaire’s half propped form. They were both exhausted for spending so long on the road, and even if it was already evening, a nap would be welcomed. Enjolras yawned and stretched on the bed, snuggling closer to Grantaire, who enveloped him with an arm and allowed his trembling hands to caress Enjolras’ curls.

                “Why don’t you take a nap?” Grantaire suggested absentmindedly, concentrated on Enjolras’ heartbeat against his own chest.

                “What?” Enjolras asked as if he had been personally offended. “Of course not. I still have so much to do! I can’t take a nap. I’m just resting my legs a little bit”.

                “Right”, Grantaire chuckled. “What is it that you have to do instead of sleeping?”

                “I have to finish writing the speech for tomorrow, and then I need to finish some posters that I didn’t have the time to do back in Paris, then I’ll have to go to Combeferre’s room to discuss some things with him about our plan of action, then I’ll have to go to Feuilly’s to sort the posters into different backpacks because you know, we can’t just walk into the square holding opposition posters in our hands. We need to hide them, and once the speech has started, we hold them up”.

                “What are you writing a speech for?” Grantaire frowned. Enjolras seemed confused by his question.

                “To… deliver it?” Enjolras answered as if it was obvious.

                “What do you mean deliver it? I thought we would just protest against the guy and then run away from the police”, Grantaire said, propping himself into a sitting position so that he could look at Enjolras, but never breaking touch with him. “Do you intend on going up the stage to speak?”, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Enjolras, mimicking Grantaire’s previous frown, nodded as if the cynic was not making any sense.

                “Well, yes”, he said. “So that we can get our message across. Once we start the protest, Charles X’s right hand will probably be removed from the stage before things can get too violent towards him. I will use this window to go up and deliver my own speech”.

                Grantaire’s hand on Enjolras’ hair stopped abruptly and he stared at his boyfriend with a blank face. What the fuck was Enjolras thinking? Was he really that eager to get himself killed?

                “That will make you an easy target, you know that right?”, he asked, sounding accusing. “They’ll probably shoot you at the spot”.

                “They won’t”, Enjolras snorted. “It will be better for them to arrest me and publicly execute me later, it would make people more afraid. Killing me then and there would turn me into a martyr”.

                “And killing you later wouldn’t martyrize you?” Grantaire snorted back. They had broken their embrace by now, both propped into sitting positions and staring at each other.

                “No, because it would be authoritarian and I would be defeated. If they kill me on the spot, they will be shooting down a strong and imminent threat, if they arrest me and kill me later, they will be subjugating me”, Enjolras explained. “Killing me later is more effective because it symbolically represents killing the revolution. Shooting me right then will just show how dangerous and strong the revolution really is, and how afraid they are of it”.

                Grantaire blinked several times before responding.

                “Why are you talking so lightly about your own death?”, he settled for asking. Enjolras tilted his chin like he always did when defied before responding.

                “My life is nothing when compared to the lives of the thousands of people who suffer with Charles X’s tyranny every day. If dying is what it takes for me to make a change, then I will gladly do it. But I don’t plan on dying tomorrow. That’s what I’m going to discuss with Combeferre”.

                “Still, Enjolras”, Grantaire protested, angry. Why was Enjolras so stupid and _stubborn_? “It’s too risky. You’re assuming these people will be as smart as you and decide to arrest you instead of shooting you in the head, but maybe, just _maybe_ , they’re brainless soldiers who won’t think twice before killing the guy who’s disrupting and turning into hell what was supposed to be a peaceful public speech”.

                “Peaceful?” Enjolras scorned, getting up from the bed. “What is ever peaceful about these tyrants who think they can rule our country without the people’s democratic consent? What have they done so far that was ever peaceful? His mere presence on that square, speaking to the people he mistreats as if he actually cares about them, is offensive by itself! There is nothing peaceful about Charles X or any of his associates, and if we all assume a conformist stand like you then France will be doomed!”

                “France was doomed from the day the first human being set its foot on it”, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Getting yourself killed won’t change anything. People will still suffer, Charles will still be chancellor, and you’ll expose your friends and your group to the eyes of the Secret Police. You’d be better off just holding up your subversive signs and shouting at the police, and even so, that’s still dangerous as fuck”.

                “I don’t aim for immediate, radical change, Grantaire, I am aware that is impossible”, Enjolras protested, angry. “But if my fight and my death are able to change just a tiny bit of the suffering that people are going through, then I’ll be happy”.

                “But I won’t!”, Grantaire burst, voice raising. “God, you’re so fucking selfish”, he muttered, even though he was extremely aware of how hypocritical that was for him to say. “You seem to be thinking about every single person at France, except for the one who cares about you the most”.

                He hadn’t meant to say that, but it ended up coming out anyway. It was the truth. Despite everything, he was sure that no one loved Enjolras as much as he did. That was extremely pretentious but it was true. He would die for Enjolras if it came to it.

                The leader, on the other hand, was staring at Grantaire with an unreadable expression, chest falling and rising with each heavy breath.

                “I love you, R”, he said after what felt like an eternity of staring and panting at each other. “But I love France, too. And this is what I was born to do”. His hand tightened into a fist and he looked away from Grantaire. “I _have_ to do this”.

                He turned on his heels, grabbing his backpack from where it was lying forgotten on the floor, open and overflowing with folded posters.

                “I’m going to Ferre’s room to talk to him about some preparations”, he announced without meeting Grantaire’s eyes. When the cynic didn’t respond, he made his way to the room’s door and opened it. Before he could leave for good, Grantaire called his name.

                “Enjolras”. The leader didn’t turn around, but his head tilted to the side and he stopped in his tracks. “I won’t stand idly and watch you die. Don’t expect that of me”.

                With a nod, Enjolras left and closed the door behind him.

                Grantaire wanted to scream, to cry and to break all the furniture around him, but the silence of the now empty room was too overwhelming for him to even move. He sat there at the unfamiliar bed, muscles aching, staring at the white wall in front of him with a look that not even he would be able to describe.

                He knew he wouldn’t be able to talk Enjolras out of getting himself killed, he had always known that. But just the thought of losing Enjolras forever was enough to make the ache below his stomach and the emptiness inside his chest twist and churn as if calling his attention. He needed a drink more than ever, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t do that to his friends or to himself. Instead, he turned the lamp on the bedside table off and turned on his side, ignoring the protest of his muscles and trying to fall asleep even though he had slept through the entire journey there and it was still 7 p.m.

                He was still awake when the room’s door clicked and a streak of light from the hallway filled the room for just a second before disappearing again. His heart beat faster in his chest and all his instincts were screaming at him to turn around to see who it was, and to get rid of the invader before they could kill him. Before he could do anything, though, thoughts racing too fast and body paralyzed from panic, the slow, light steps stopped and a kiss was planted on his brow. He recognized the scent and the texture of the lips – he would have recognized them anywhere – and relaxed upon realizing it was just Enjolras, who probably thought that he was asleep.

                “I love you, R”, he whispered quietly in the dark, and his voice would have been barely audible was it not for the complete silence of the room. Grantaire wanted to reply, to tell Enjolras the extension of his love, the intensity of it, but Enjolras thought he was asleep and he was still angry at him for being so eager to kill himself. Instead, Grantaire lied very still as he felt the pressure of another body lying on the bed beside him, never touching him, but near enough for him to be able to feel the heat of Enjolras’ skin. His thoughts merged with the silence and the darkness of the hotel room until he eventually fell asleep, but he didn’t realize he had done so until he woke up in the morning only to see that Enjolras was already gone.

                                                                                              -

                Upon casually researching the hotel, Grantaire found that the friends who had stayed there – Combeferre and Coufeyrac – were gone, too. He had overheard the Amis saying that the public speech would happen at 11 a.m., but since the hotels were a bit far away from the square in which the speech would happen due to safety measures, they would need to leave a little earlier. They had probably just left, and Enjolras hadn’t even bother to call him.

                He didn’t know whether or not he should attend the protest. He had made clear that he would not watch Enjolras get himself killed, and he still felt nauseous and achy all over to stuff himself in the middle of an angry crowd. All odds were telling him not to attend, but if Enjolras was to die, Grantaire would want to be there and die with him. He wouldn’t be able to live without him anyway, so it would be better if they took one with one blow. He found himself hailing a cab in front of the hotel and giving instructions to the square without even realizing it, as if his impulse had taken the best of him for a moment. He would probably arrive there at the time the public speech started.

                But what he didn’t take into consideration was that there would be traffic due to a closed street – Enjolras probably had foreseen that, being who he was – and, when he finally got to the square, shoving money he had taken from Enjolras’ wallet, there was already a fidgeting among the crowd that made Grantaire’s instincts tingle in anticipation.

                As he approached the square, he could see there was something wrong right away. Charles X’s right hand spoke as if untroubled, but even from where he was standing, Grantaire could see the sweat on his brow and the trembling in his voice. The police was surrounding the entire square in a circular formation that would not allow anyone to exit the place without either consent or a fight. And then Grantaire realized – they were searching the attendees of the speech. He frankly searched the square for Enjolras or any familiar face, fearing that they were already caught, trying to break into the police circle and enter the crowd even if the idea itself repulsed him.

                One of the police men pulled a girl’s arm with more strength than necessary, knocking her on the floor. Ignoring her, he pulled her backpack, opening it and revealing a scrunched poster. Unfolding it, the words “Down with Charles X” could be clearly read.

                Grantaire’s heart beat faster.

                The police man pulled the girl to her feet with one hand, dragging her away from the crowd and throwing her on the floor outside the square. Before Grantaire could even think about doing anything, though, a large man obstructed his view, stepping in front of him to block his way. Looking up, Grantaire saw it was a police man.

                “May I help you, citizen?” he asked with a stern voice that challenged the cynic to defy him.

                “I’m here for the speech”, Grantaire said simply, trying to step to the side and pass the man, who once more blocked his way.

                “The square is already full. You can watch from here”.

                “I’d rather watch from there, thank you very much”, he said, trying to pass the man again. This time, he was stopped with a harsh hand to his shoulder.

                “This is your last warning. Step back or you’ll be arrested”.

                The tense seconds that passed as Grantaire stared at the police man were cut off by a sudden chant that began slowly and barely understandable. The police man turned his head to look at the square, and Grantaire took his chance to quietly step away and go round on the square to try and find his friends. The chant became more loud and discernible, and Grantaire realized it was a song. A song he had never heard before, a song that he didn’t know and yet could only have been written by one person.

                If that song was being sung, was because Enjolras was still at the square.

                His eyes frantically ran across every face agglomerated there, trying to spot a familiar mop of blond curls or any face that was recognizable. His heart was at his throat and he was growing hopeless when a large man entered his line of sight and he spotted Bahorel near him on the edge of the square, fists raised up and rhythmically punching the air as he shouted in unison with the crowd: “Vive la France! Vive la France!”

                Squeezing his way past the circle of police men who had more things to be worried about than him, Grantaire fought against the vivid crowd until he finally reached Bahorel, who was so distracted by the chanting that he didn’t even realize Grantaire was there until the cynic was shouting in his ear so that he could be heard over all the voices.

                “Bahorel!”, Grantaire yelled, and the man looked down at him in surprise before widening his eyes at the sight of him.

                “R? What the fuck are you doing here? You were supposed to be at the ho–“

                “Where’s Enjolras?” Grantaire interrupted him. He needed to find Enjolras and protect him, even if the stupid man wanted to deliver his goddamn speech. As they spoke, X’s right hand man was removed from the stage by tenths of police men just as Enjolras had predicted. Which could only mean…

                “R, wait!”, Bahorel shouted as Grantaire broke into a run towards the stage. His muscles were aching but the pain was soon pushed into background noise as the adrenaline in his system replaced it. He needed to find Enjolras.

                Just as he was halfway to the stage, having to pass and bump on dozens of people holding signs and posters, he saw Enjolras, climbing the thing with Combeferre and Feuilly’s help. Before any police man could stop him, he broke into a run on the wooden surface and grabbed the microphone, tapping on it twice before basically shouting the words on the device. The square had become almost a pandemonium: the people on the edges were being pushed back and assaulted by the police surrounding it, and the people on the center were shouting chants and jumping. Enjolras was speaking but Grantaire wasn’t sure they were paying attention, but the words resonated within him even so.

                “People of France! How much longer must we stand this injustice? How much longer will we lower our heads to the men who abuse us and mistreat us? How much longer will we watch our minorities suffer and be publicly executed like pigs on slaughter? How much longer will we accept a chancellor that doesn’t care about his people? That does nothing but use us? That does nothing but usurp our rights just like he usurped his government seat?”

                A horde of police men was trying to fight their way across the crowd to get to the stage and stop Enjolras, but the people were doing their part. Instead of holding up the signs like before, the protestors had intertwined their arms, forming a human chain that stopped the police men from reaching the stage without putting up a fight. The police, which had been encircling the square, were now being encircled by the protestors in the chain formation, giving Enjolras the necessary time to resume his speech. Grantaire found himself stuck in the middle of all that, not being part of the chain formation and not being the police, either, masses of people pressing against him and pushing him until he was unable to breathe. All he could do was try to reach the stage somehow, outstretching his hand towards it in a faint hope that the movement of the masses would lead him towards where he wanted to go, towards Enjolras. All he could see in that claustrophobic state of pressure was shoulders and arms and bodies mixing together, the stench of sweat and humanity overwhelming his senses. His anxiety grew unbearable and he found himself on the verge of passing out, unable to breathe, when the human chain holding the police men broke and they could finally advance into the crowd. The people moved naturally in the same direction, pushed back, and Grantaire was moved along with them, suddenly able to breathe again. Enjolras had finished speaking and had gone back to singing, the people singing with him even as they fought the guards.

                Grantaire reached the stage before the police could, mustering the last remains of his strength to climb it. He kicked a police man who had followed him close in the face before he could climb it too, knocking him down and not waiting to see what had become of him as he turned to face Enjolras, who was staring at him in a mix of confusion and surprise. Below them, the people were still singing, chanting and fighting.

                “What are you doing here?!”, Enjolras shouted over the confusion beneath them. Grantaire wasted no time and grabbed his arm, pulling him along as he ran to the back of the stage. Enjolras accompanied him with no resistance, and as they climbed the stage down he repeated his question. “R, what are you doing here, you were supposed to –“

                “Enjolras, let’s go!” Grantaire urged, pulling Enjolras through the back of the square. This time, Enjolras pulled back, resisting him.

                “No, I have to make sure Combeferre and Courfeyrac –“

                “You can’t help them, Enjolras, just –“

                “No!”, Enjolras shouted, pulling his arm back and releasing himself from Grantaire’s strong grip. “My friends are still back there; I won’t leave until I make sure they are safe!”

                “Enjolras, wait –“, Grantaire shouted, but to no avail. Enjolras was already running, cornering the stage and heading back to the crowd. Grantaire lingered in shock for a few seconds before following the leader, but it was useless, since as soon as he cornered the stage he saw Enjolras supporting an injured Feuilly and being followed back by Courfeyrac and Bahorel. He helped Enjolras support Feuilly’s weight, dragging the half-conscious ginger to the back of the stage until Bahorel grew tired of their slow pace and picked him up bridal style.

                “Where are the others?” Enjolras asked, resting against the wooden surface of the stage before gesturing for them to run back to where their car was parked. Grantaire accompanied him closely, looking around and staying alert to any possible dangers around them.

                “They got away, just stick to the plan”, Courfeyrac panted, apparently limping as they went up a street. The sounds of the chaotic mess that the protest had become were dying down as they put distance between themselves and the square, but there were still police sirens echoing throughout the streets nearby.

                “What is the plan?” Grantaire panted, trying to keep up with them despite his burning muscles. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last exercised.

                “We go to our respective hotels and check in through text as soon as we arrive”, Courfeyrac explained absentmindedly, tripping and nearly falling. Grantaire rolled his eyes and helped him regain his balance, passing one of the man’s arms around his shoulder to sustain his weight even though he was barely able to sustain his _own_ weight.

                “It wasn’t supposed to go to hell so quickly”, Bahorel protested, panting from carrying Feuilly.

                “Yeah, what the hell happened?” Courfeyrac basically whined. “Why did they start attacking us before we even did anything?”

                “They were searching the protesters”, Grantaire explained absentmindedly, eyes frantically searching the street for any patrols. “I don’t know why but when I got there they were searching backpacks and looking for posters. Someone must have snitched”.

                “No”, Enjolras said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, why would anyone snitch…?”

                “You can’t really be that fucking naïve”, Grantaire burst out without meaning to. Enjolras, instead of angrily responding as he normally would, went quiet, lips forming a thin line. They finally reached their car, and Enjolras took the initiative to drive, despite of Courfeyrac’s protests.

                “We can’t arrive on the hotel with Feuilly like this”, Bahorel said as soon as they took off. Feuilly’s face was semi-covered in blood, result of a cut on his forehead. He looked more unconscious than anything now. “They’ll arrest us both. We can’t take him to a hospital either”.

                Courfeyrac clicked his tongue in agreement and Grantaire merely observed Enjolras from where he was sitting on the back of the car. His eyes were dancing restlessly across the road as he tried to figure out what to do.

                “You’ll need to go back to Paris straight away, then”, Enjolras instructed. “I will tell Joly to go after you. The rest of us will stay here in Nice for the remaining time”.

                “Enjolras, they’ll be looking for you”, Courfeyrac protested. “Shouldn’t you go with them to Paris?”

                “No”, he immediately responded, lips forming a thin line. “Like you said, they’ll be looking for me. The first thing they’ll expect me to do will be run away from here. They’ll be waiting for me. I’ll need to stay here for a little longer”.

                “Enjolras –“

                “No”, was all the leader said, sharply, and the car went silent for the rest of the way. Enjolras parked on the back of the hotel, and looked back at Bahorel. “Take Feuilly back to Paris and go to Joly’s. Take care. If anyone stops you, say you’ve gotten yourselves into a bar fight or something like that”.

                “Enjolras…”

                “Do you understand?!” Enjolras asked abruptly, glaring at Bahorel through the rearview mirror. The man merely nodded, resigned, trying to balance Feuilly’s head against his shoulder without letting it fall off.

                Enjolras parked the car a few meters away from his hotel, climbing out of the car unceremoniously and going around it so he could help Courfeyrac out. Grantaire followed him helplessly, not knowing what he should do and just wishing he could get himself and Enjolras out of the middle of the street at once.

                Bahorel urged Feuilly into a lying position on the back seat as gently as he could, pressing his own coat against the cut on the man’s head to contain the flow of blood that was already coming to a stop. He then took Enjolras’ place behind the wheel, lowering the window before he started the car.

                “Enjolras, be careful”, he said, in a worried way that was unusual for Bahorel. “They’ll be looking for you”.

                “I know”, Enjolras nodded seriously, taking Grantaire’s place on sustaining Courfeyrac’s weight. “Be careful too. Don’t forget to let us know when you get there”.

                Bahorel nodded once, before closing the car window and taking off.

                They stopped beside the hotel before entering it so that they could straighten their clothes and their hair to look as casual as possible. If they arrived looking as disheveled and shocked as they were, they would raise unwanted – and possibly deadly – suspicion. Courfeyrac assured Enjolras that he would be able to walk normally at least through the lobby, and so they entered the building, trying to look as casual as possible.

                “Morning”, the receptionist greeted.

                “Good morning”, Enjolras answered, putting on a fake smile that could go by a true one to people who didn’t know him.

                “Are you lads alright? Did you see the horrible turmoil that happened on Place –“

                “We saw”, Enjolras interrupted, but there was no harshness in his tone, only sympathy. He smiled at the lady once more as if to silently apologize for cutting her off. “We had to postpone our tour because of that”.

                “Such a shame”, she clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Well, I’m sure things will be better by night. Call me if you need anything!”, she winked, and Grantaire tried to hide the flush on his face when he saw Enjolras wink back. As soon as they entered the corridor for Courfeyrac’s room, though, Enjolras previously sympathetic face fell back into a serious grimace, eyes distant and pensive. Courfeyrac’s hands were too shaky for him to put the key into the keyhole, but he didn’t need to try for long. Suddenly, the door was pulled open, revealing an apparently composed Combeferre who quickly urged them in.

                “Where does it hurt?” was the first thing he asked, aiding Courfeyrac to the bed and helping him into a lying position. Enjolras went straight to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. Grantaire lingered by the bed, unsure of what he should do.

                “My ankle”, Courfeyrac said, lifting his trousers up so that Combeferre could examine his injury. “I think I sprained it”.

                Combeferre pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose before doing some careful movements with Courfeyrac’s ankle. The boy jolted and yelped in pain, covering his mouth with his hand to prevent from screaming. Grantaire, feeling useless beside the bed, offered him one of his hands so that he could squeeze. Courfeyrac did, nearly crushing Grantaire’s palm with his strong grip, but the cynic didn’t say a word.

                “H-has anyone else arrived?” Courfeyrac asked, voice tight from pain.

                “Only Jehan, Marius and Cosette that I know of”, Combeferre responded absentmindedly, resuming to examine Courfeyrac’s ankle. “You did sprain it. I’m going to immobilize it and then you can put some ice, but it’s all I can do for now”.

                “Thank you, Ferre”, Courfeyrac breathed out, allowing himself to fall back and relax into the pillows that were propping him into a sitting position. “Are they ok?”

                “Yes”, Combeferre said as he enveloped the ice in a towel. “Marius got himself a black eye but it’s nothing serious”. He placed the towel beside Courfeyrac on the bed and grabbed a shirt from his backpack to use as a makeshift bandage to Courfeyrac’s ankle. He couldn’t just ask for a first aid kit, or he’d raise too many questions. After he tied the shirt up tightly around the man’s ankle, he placed the ice on the top of it. “Leave it on for fifteen minutes and then take it off. It’s the best I can do, but since we’ll be returning to Paris soon, I can patch you up better there”.

                “We won’t be returning to Paris tonight”, Enjolras said, suddenly reappearing from the bathroom. His face was damp and his cheeks were red, as if he had been crying but then washed it off. He was as serious as before, with a look that verged on angry, and Grantaire unconsciously let go of Courfeyrac’s hand and got to his feet when faced with Enjolras’ form. They stared at each other for what must have lasted a millisecond, and then Enjolras approached Combeferre without sparing Grantaire a second look. “They saw my face on the stage and will be looking for me. The first thing they’ll expect me to do is to flee. We need to wait here. Feuilly was injured badly so I told Bahorel to take him back to Paris straight away. He’s probably on the road by now”.

                Combeferre eyed Enjolras knowingly for a few moments before clicking his tongue and letting out a resigned sigh.

                “So we’ll just wait here in the hotel? For how much longer?”

                “I don’t know”, Enjolras lowered his head. “We need to make them think we’re just simple tourists. We need to go out for tours and visits and things like that”.

                “How will Courfeyrac go on tours with his ankle like this?” Grantaire frowned. He realized it was the first time he spoke after he snapped at Enjolras. The leader turned to look at him with scorn, but his face immediately softened for some reason.

                “You’re right”, Combeferre nodded. “He can’t walk like this without worsening the state of his ankle, and even if he did, it would raise suspicion as to why he got injured and why we didn’t ask for help”.

                Enjolras took in a deep breath, biting his lower lip. His hands came to rest on his hips, knuckles going white from the force of his grip, and Grantaire wanted nothing more than to take his hands into his and help him relax, help him let go of all that stress that was so clearly consuming him.

                “Go back to Paris tomorrow morning”, Enjolras instructed without looking at Combeferre.

                “And leave you here alone?” Combeferre frowned, unconvinced.

                “He won’t be alone”, Grantaire said simply, stepping forward. Enjolras raised his head to stare at him.

                “What were you doing there anyway?” he asked, being clearly petty in a foolish attempt to exteriorize the frustration he must have been feeling. “I thought you had made it clear you wouldn’t want to get yourself involved with this protest”.

                “I wouldn’t leave you alone out there”, Grantaire explained, trying his best to remain calm and sound patient. Fighting with Enjolras was the last thing he wanted on that moment, and the last thing either of them needed.

                “Oh”, Enjolras scoffed sarcastically, cruelly, even. “Right. I forgot how much you _cared_ about me”.

                “Enjolras”, Combeferre said in a warning tone. Grantaire felt his heart beat faster and drop to his stomach.

                “I won’t do this with you right now”, Grantaire shook his head with a humorless smirk. “You’re hot headed and frustrated and you just want to take it out on someone. So just take a deep breath and we’ll talk when you’re feeling more reasonable, ok?”

                “ _Reasonable?_ ” Enjolras burst, approaching Grantaire in three quick steps. “And who are you to tell me what’s reasonable? Was it _reasonable_ when you spat your _pessimistic bullshit_ on my face at the eve of the event I had been waiting for months?”

                “Enjolras, calm down –“, Courfeyrac tried.

                “No!”, Enjolras protested sharply. “I’m tired of this. I love you, Grantaire, but you’re a real jerk sometimes, ok? You’re being a pain in the ass right now”.

                Grantaire took a step back, surprised by the harshness of Enjolras’ words. He knew it. He knew that Enjolras would grow tired of him eventually, and it had taken what, a week for it to happen? The hurt must have shown in his expression, because suddenly all the anger was gone from Enjolras’ face, being replaced by a sense of guilt that Grantaire felt undeserving of. Enjolras was right. The words he had said were as true as they could be, because Enjolras never lied, right? Not to his friends, not to him.

                “Right”, Grantaire managed to say, voice constricted by the knot that formed in his throat. Suddenly, all the weight of the stress and the exercise he had done on the past hour fell upon him and he felt weary to the bone. He swallowed dry and didn’t look at any of their faces as he stepped away from Enjolras and out of their bedroom, heading for his own. Enjolras didn’t follow him.

                He thought about going to the hotel’s bar and get himself shitfaced just out of spite, but decided against it. As much as he wanted to drink, he knew that would only make the tension with Enjolras even worse.

                As soon as he entered the dark room, he fished his buzzing phone out of his pocket, seeing a new message from Joly saying that he, Bossuet and Musichetta were fine and back at their own hotel. Tossing the device to the side absentmindedly, Grantaire allowed himself to fall on the bed, exhaustion taking the best of him and feeling the soreness of his muscles return as he fell into an uneasy, dreamless sleep.

                He woke up to the feel of lips against his skin, kissing his cheek, his neck, his shoulder and his bare chest. Opening his eyes sluggishly, he saw Enjolras on the top of him, bending over so he could place sloppy kisses all over Grantaire’s body. The room was still dark and all Grantaire could see were Enjolras’ green eyes and his golden hair that still managed to glow with the little illumination that came from the closed window.

                “Enjolras?” he asked, confused and unsure as to what Enjolras was doing.

                “Shh”, Enjolras shushed him, giving him a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry. I was really rude to you before, and unnecessarily. I want to make it up to you”.

                “Enjolras…” Grantaire breathed out, too distracted by Enjolras’ lips sucking on his earlobe to form a coherent sentence. His cock twitched inside his jeans, and there was no way Enjolras didn’t feel that, being on the top of him. He flushed with embarrassment.

                “I am sorry”, Enjolras repeated, whispering the words in his ear. “Do you forgive me?”

                “I’ll always forgive you”, Grantaire whispered back, hands finding their way to grasp Enjolras’ hips.

                Enjolras then caught him in a breathtaking kiss, tongue running across his lower lips in a way that was so terribly turning on. His cock was painfully hard, now, and with surprise, Grantaire noticed that Enjolras’ was too. Is that where he was going with this?

                As much as Grantaire had desired Enjolras from the first moment he saw him, he didn’t know if he could do that. Enjolras was a virgin, he was pure. Grantaire was dirty and unholy, he didn’t want to impurify Enjolras like that.

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras breathed out, basically moaned – the only explanation was that he was trying to drive Grantaire crazy from lust, because holy shit – and Grantaire took advantage of the hands on Enjolras’ hips to pull him closer and deepen the kiss.

                “What is it that you want?” Grantaire asked tentatively, allowing himself to bite Enjolras’ lower lip and suck on it. He would do anything to make Enjolras happy, to help him relax.

                “You”, Enjolras said, imitating Grantaire and sucking on the cynic’s lower lip.

                “I’m right here”, Grantaire smiled, kissing Enjolras’ neck and collarbone.

                “No”, Enjolras shook his head with a smile. “I want you inside me”.

                Grantaire took in a deep breath, hating the way his cock gave another twitch merely because of Enjolras’ words. God, how he wanted that. But he couldn’t… Enjolras was… he couldn’t defile him like that. He must have sensed Grantaire’s hesitation, because he pulled back slightly so that they could properly look at each other.

                “Only if you want to”, Enjolras clarified, tilting his chin slightly to the side as if to show that he was being serious about that. “You don’t have to feel forced…”

                “It’s not that”, Grantaire smiled, allowing his forehead to rest against Enjolras’ and his eyelids to slip close. “It’s just…”, he stopped himself, too embarrassed to continue.

                “What is it?” Enjolras urged, using his nose to tilt Grantaire’s face up delicately.

                “You’re…” Grantaire begun, taking another deep breath. He opened his eyes to stare inside Enjolras’ curious ones. “You’re a virgin”, he ended up saying.

                “So?” Enjolras frowned, not understanding his point.

                “I don’t want to… maculate you”, Grantaire continued, only then realizing how ridiculous the words must have sounded to Enjolras. Their relationship was so, so recent, and Grantaire didn’t want Enjolras to do something he might regret later on impulse.

                Enjolras, on the other hand, frowned deeper and let out a huff.

                “Grantaire”, he said seriously, straightening himself in his sitting position above Grantaire. The movement created friction and Grantaire let out a shaky, lustful breath. “There is nothing maculating about sex”, he explained, subtly rocking his hips once as if to taunt the cynic. “And virginity is a social construct created to subdue women and demonize their sexual drive”, he explained, and of course he would say that in the bed with Grantaire. He rocked his hips again, this time less subtly, and Grantaire could feel his erection pressing against his own. Enjolras was driving him _crazy_. “You won’t be doing anything I don’t consent to”, Enjolras continued, leaning down to place a kiss on Grantaire’s lips. He was nearly convinced, lust and desire overcoming his judgement and fears.  “But I want your consent. I would never force you”, Enjolras said, climbing down from Grantaire’s lap in a respectful manner. He lied down beside him, hand resting about Grantaire’s chest and certainly feeling how fast his heart was beating. He stared up at Grantaire with something that could only be described as love.

                “Are you sure about this?” Grantaire breathed out, allowing one of his hands to tangle Enjolras’ soft curls. Enjolras placed another sloppy kiss on his cheeks, allowing his head to rest against Grantaire’s shoulder.

                “Only if you want to”, he said, and somehow, despite all his insecurities, that was enough for Grantaire.

                He turned on his side, kissing Enjolras full on the lips and getting on the top of him as they made out. Enjolras moaned – _fuck_ – and his hands were dancing across Grantaire’s bare back, teasing the skin and pulling him closer.

                “How do you want it?” Grantaire asked, breaking their kiss slowly. Enjolras closed his eyes and sighed, as if too overwhelmed to answer straight away.

                “I want you inside me”, he said, but it sounded more like a request.

                “Are you sure?” Grantaire insisted. “You’ve never –“

                “I am sure”, Enjolras nodded, kissing him again. “I want this. I am ready to try”.

                “Alright”, Grantaire said softly. He’d had his fair share of sex, and knew how much preparation it would take Enjolras on his first time. He got from the top of his boyfriend, getting up from the bed to grab a pack of condoms that he had put on his backpack (he hadn’t thought about having sex with Enjolras. The pack was something that had been inside his backpack for ages now, conveniently placed and mostly forgotten there by him). He also brought a small flask with lube inside, and tried not to groan at the way Enjolras’ eyes shone with desire when he saw the object. “I want you to tell me if you want me to stop, ok?” Grantaire said sweetly, placing a kiss on Enjolras’ lips. “If anything hurts, if anything happens, I want you to –“

                “Grantaire”, Enjolras interrupted with a frustrated sigh. “Don’t worry. I will”.

                With a nod, Grantaire went back to kissing Enjolras. He removed the leader’s pants as they made out, being as gentle and careful as he could. He felt Enjolras’ erection twitch when he accidentaly brushed it with his hand, and that was enough to make him finally moan into their kiss. God, how was it possible that one single man had that much effect on him? How could he love and want Enjolras that much?

                Enjolras rocked his hips up as if to call Grantaire’s attention, and he promptly went back to removing Enjolras’ clothes, this time breaking their kiss to take his shirt out. Enjolras was mostly naked now, except for his boxers, and Grantaire was still wearing his pants. He promptly removed them, allowing them to fall forgotten on the floor and going back to kissing Enjolras.

                “Do you know how this works?” Grantaire panted as he gently pulled the elastic of Enjolras’ boxers to remove it. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

                “Of course I know how this works”, he said matter-of-factly, pulling Grantaire into another kiss. Grantaire resumed removing Enjolras’ boxers, but left his own on.

                “Alright”, Grantaire said, almost shyly, which was so surprising. Enjolras was supposed to be the shy one, not him. He coated his fingers in lube, sparing one last look at Enjolras. Even there, at the dim lit hotel bedroom, he looked astounding. “God, you’re so beautiful”, Grantaire whispered, placing a kiss on Enjolras’ hips. Could he really do that? Could he really spoil Enjolras using his filthy hands?

                “Please”, Enjolras moaned, anticipation clear in his face. His lips were so red.

                “Are you ready?” Grantaire asked.

                “Yes”, Enjolras breathed out, spreading his legs for Grantaire.

                He was lost.

 

                                                                                              ~

 

 

                Slowly and carefully, he allowed one of his fingers to slide inside Enjolras’ ass, feeling the way it clenched around the unusual insertion. Enjolras let out a groan at this, and Grantaire couldn’t tell whether it was from pain or pleasure. He stopped, leaving his finger inside Enjolras to see if he would protest, but all he did was swallow dry, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he stared at Grantaire with lust filled eyes. He nodded once, and Grantaire continued to finger him as slowly and gently as he could.

                Enjolras’ breathing pattern was all messed up now, breaths coming out in short puffs. God, if only one finger was able to do that to him, Grantaire wondered what would happen when he put his cock inside him.

                When Enjolras’ hole had loosened up for his finger, Grantaire carefully inserted another one, making Enjolras yelp. Once more, he stopped, but Enjolras just breathed out a low “c’mon”, which was enough to make him keep going. This went on, Enjolras panting as Grantaire fingered him, until he added a third finger, making scissoring movements to help loosen him up further. Enjolras was a mess on the bed, hands grasping the sheets tightly and legs writhing around Grantaire. Low and short moans escaped his lips ever so often, and his eyes had slipped close at the same time his mouth formed a small ‘o’.

                “Tell me when you’re ready”, Grantaire bent over and whispered in his ear, taking the chance to suck at his earlobe. Enjolras let out a shaky breath that tingled Grantaire’s neck.

                “I’m ready”, he panted, voice constricted.

                “Are you sure?”

                “Just – fuck – just… Just…”

                “Say no more”, Grantaire smirked, biting his earlobe and removing his fingers from inside Enjolras. He whined at the absence, but waited patiently at the bed, legs still spread as Grantaire finally removed his own boxers and slid a condom around his erection.

                He could see the way Enjolras gaped at his member, and couldn’t help but to blush. He was still unsure about this – he wanted to make love to Enjolras more than he wanted anything in his life – but he still felt as if he would be dirtying him somehow. And he didn’t want Enjolras to feel dirty.

                “Please, Grantaire”, Enjolras moaned, and once again lust took over and Grantaire obeyed.

                He would do anything Enjolras ordered him to.

                Putting inside Enjolras was one of the tensest and yet most blissful experiences Grantaire had ever had. Tense, because he was afraid to hurt him, so he carefully placed the head on his entrance and pushed in as slowly as he could as if to give his ass time to get used to the presence. And blissful, because as soon as Enjolras’ warmth and tightness enveloped him, he completely forgot about whatever fears he had sustained before, because all that mattered was Enjolras, Enjolras’ warmth, Enjolras moaning, Enjolras begging for his cock inside him.

                He didn’t push all the way in, in fear of hurting his beloved, and as soon as he was half-way, he stopped, giving Enjolras time to grow accustomed to him. Enjolras was breathing heavily and his eyes were shut tight, but eventually, he nodded. Grantaire removed his cock and inserted it again, and this time Enjolras breathed out something that Grantaire couldn’t understand and moaned. He repeated the action, more slowly than he would have liked, the heat and the friction driving him crazy. He didn’t want to go too fast and hurt Enjolras, all he cared about was giving his boyfriend all the pleasure that he deserved.

                Eventually, Enjolras grew tired of Grantaire’s slow rhythm and pulled him into a kiss, still breathing heavily against his skin.

                “Faster”, he asked – no, ordered – and Grantaire complied to his wish, allowing his hips to catch a faster pace that still wasn’t too fast. Enjolras fell back against the pillows, eyes closed and mouth open, one arm thrown above his eyes as Grantaire fucked him. And then, suddenly: “Stop”.

                Grantaire immediately stopped, pulling out completely and waiting for Enjolras to say something else. He spent several minutes in silence and got up from the bed.

                Grantaire didn’t know what he had done wrong. Did he go too fast and hurt Enjolras? Did he go too slowly and bored him? Wasn’t he satisfied with Grantaire? Did he regret his decision and realized how unworthy Grantaire was? A thousand intrusive thoughts crossed his mind as he helplessly stared up at Enjolras’ standing form.

                And then Enjolras took his hand, leading him towards the only free wall of the bedroom. He leant against it, facing Grantaire, and grabbed the cynic’s cock with soft fingers.

                Did he really…?

                “I’m ready”, Enjolras reassured him, seeing the doubt in his eyes. “I want this”.

                Grantaire merely nodded. He wasn’t the strongest of men, but he was strong enough to hoist Enjolras up, hands tightening around his hips and pressing them against the wall. Enjolras helped him, intertwining his legs around Grantaire’s waist to keep himself in place. Grantaire blindly searched for Enjolras’ entrance, placing his head on it. Enjolras, impatient, pressed down, sliding himself around Grantaire’s cock. The cynic impulsively thrust upwards, entering Enjolras halfway. Enjolras’ arms twisted around Grantaire’s shoulder to keep balance, and then they were fucking again, Enjolras propped up against the wall by Grantaire’s hands.

                “Deeper”, he was begging, moaning, eyes slipping shut once more. Grantaire licked and sucked at his exposed neck, allowing his hips to thrust deeper into Enjolras’ ass. “ _Deeper_ ”, he said again, but this time it sounded more like an order. He allowed himself to put his entire length into Enjolras, rejoicing at the way he yelled in pleasure but suddenly realizing that he was being too noisy.

                “Shh, keep it down”, he instructed, biting his neck softly not to leave a mark. It was already frowned upon that they were two men sharing a room; if anyone suspected that they were having intimate relations, they could be arrested and killed. Enjolras, though, seemed too lost in pleasure to realize that, because another loud moan escaped his rosy lips as Grantaire thrust fast and deep into him. “Enjolras, they’re going to hear us, shut up”, Grantaire whispered.

                “Make me”, Enjolras said, opening his eyes and staring with defiance at Grantaire. The cynic smirked, lips colliding with Enjolras’ as they kissed deeply. As Grantaire thrust deeper into him, Enjolras moaned again, and the cynic removed one of his hands from Enjolras hips to place it over his mouth and keep him from being loud. Enjolras seemed to love it, because Grantaire could feel his lips twisting into a smile beneath his palm, and he finally went quiet. And then Grantaire had an idea.

                “Hold on tightly”, he instructed, and Enjolras’ legs pressed harder against his waist, hands clutching at his shoulders. Grantaire removed his other hand from Enjolras hip, and now the only thing still pining Enjolras to the wall was the pressure of Grantaire’s body against his and the rhythmic movements of his cock pushing Enjolras against the surface. Since one of his hands was still covering Enjolras’ (noisy) mouth, he used the other to grab hold of Enjolras’ erection and push his hand up and down.

                The way Enjolras’ eyes widened in surprise and pleasure made Grantaire allow a moan to escape his own throat. Enjolras’ eyes found his and there were so many emotions going through it that Grantaire gaped, breathing loudly against Enjolras skin. His hand covering the leader’s mouth wasn’t enough to keep Enjolras’ helpless moans to resonate through the room now, and he allowed his fingers to enter Enjolras’ parted lips in a hope that that would make him quieter. Enjolras sucked on his fingers greedily, making Grantaire go wild, and he could only feel the man’s lips form the muffled words “I’m gonna –“ before Enjolras’ eyes rolled to the back of his head, mouth gaping beneath Grantaire’s hand. He came, spilling all over his and Grantaire’s belly, and Grantaire didn’t stop the bobbing movement of his hand even though it was covered in Enjolras’ come. Enjolras’ eyes were still rolled back, eyelids closed halfway, and Grantaire removed the fingers from his gaping mouth as he continued to fuck him, Enjolras’ leaning forwards and losing nearly all contact with the wall, nose buried against Grantaire’s neck.

                “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, fuck”, Grantaire said, unable to stop himself from keep thrusting inside Enjolras’ nearly limp-from-pleasure body. Enjolras was still moaning lowly, half-hard, and Grantaire removed his other hand from the leader’s cock so that he could suck his own come-coated fingers in front of Enjolras’ lustful eyes.

                “Fuck”, Enjolras gave a prolonged moan, throwing his head back as Grantaire still fucked him. His hands that had gone limp around Grantaire’s shoulders after he came regained their life and twisted around the cynic’s curls, tugging and caressing him. “Fuck”, he said again, leaning forward so that he could press his nose against Grantaire’s neck once more, licking the skin slowly and sluggishly in a way that sent Grantaire to the edge.

                “Fuck, I’m so close”, Grantaire panted helplessly, holding Enjolras’s with both hands to sustain his weight. The leader’s body was rocking up and down with each thrust, tiny moans escaping his lips as he found Grantaire’s earlobe and sucked it.

                “I love you so much”, Enjolras whispered in his ear as he allowed his tongue to curl around Grantaire’s lobe. “You were so good to me. You made me come so hard. I never came that hard in my life. Your cock was meant to be inside of me”.

                With one last, deep thrust, Grantaire came.

                As soon as the rush of his orgasm diminished, his knees buckled, weary muscles unable to sustain him upright for much longer. He carefully lowered Enjolras down, removing himself from inside him and discarding the used condom on the bedroom’s trashcan. Enjolras, whose knees were also buckling, stumbled his way to the bed and fell on it, panting heavily. Grantaire followed and lied down beside his boyfriend.

                “So”, Grantaire said with a smile, “as first times go, how did you like it?”

                Enjolras turned on his side so that he could rest his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, a hand coming to rest on the top of Grantaire’s chest.

                “It was amazing”, Enjolras whispered. “It was… beyond words”.

                “I’m glad to please”, Grantaire shrugged with a smirk.

                “What about you?”, Enjolras asked, nuzzling closer to Grantaire.

                “What about me?”

                “Was it good for you?”

                Grantaire couldn’t help but to chuckle, pulling Enjolras closer.

                “Enjolras, I was with you. It was _spectacular_ ”, he said, dropping a kiss at the top of Enjolras’ head. The leader made a small noise of contentment at the back of his throat.

                “I love you, R”, Enjolras said, snuggling closer to his boyfriend. Something inside Grantaire’s chest twisted and he felt all warm and cozy.

                Could that be happiness?

                “I love you too, Enj”, he said, smiling against the man’s hair. Then, a sudden idea crossed his mind and he started caressing Enjolras’ arm. “Before we end up falling asleep, how would you like taking a shower?”, he suggested.

                Enjolras twisted so he could look up at Grantaire with curious eyes.

                He smirked.

 

                                                                                              ~

 

                They spent three more days in Nice before going back to Paris.

                Joly had received Enjolras’ text on the day of the protest and promptly went back to Paris with Bossuet and Musichetta intending to help Feuilly. He had given word that the ginger was fine on that same night, and that it had been a slight concussion from which he was already recovering. That made Enjolras more relaxed – he had been worried sick about Feuilly – and they arranged for the Amis to leave Nice slowly and in pairs until Enjolras and Grantaire were the only ones left back at the city.

                Since they wanted to look like tourists, they went on strolls around the city, having to do their best not to look like a gay couple. The receptionist of the hotel, as oblivious as she was, never noticed or commented anything, and despite receiving a few weird looks on the streets, no one ever did anything to them.

                Grantaire had never felt like that. Enjolras was still a bit upset about the outcome of the protest – he had known it would end up in police brutality from the beginning, but he had hoped to have more time to make things go exactly according to his plan, and he hated that so many people got hurt and arrested, that hadn’t been supposed to happen – but he agreed with Grantaire, for once, that it could have been worse than it was. But despite his worry for Enjolras, Grantaire felt warm and cozy and happy. He was still too self-aware of his own ugliness and self-conscious that whatever he had with Enjolras was doomed to be destroyed or irrevocably changed when they returned to Paris and told him the truth. But for the time being, he decided to enjoy the rest of their trip and make the best of it.

                At their last night there, Grantaire decided to do him something nice. He didn’t have much money, really, but he gathered everything he had and invited Enjolras for a dinner. That was dangerous – lunches between two male friends were common, but dinners were mostly frowned upon. They would have to be extremely discreet and go to a place that wouldn’t call much attention, preferably crowded – they wouldn’t be noticed easily if there were a lot of people around them. He didn’t tell Enjolras about it, though. With the knowledge of the hard times that were on the way with his revelation, he wanted to give Enjolras the best, to make him feel loved and happy.

                He didn’t fully believe that Enjolras loved him, deep down. He knew that Enjolras had fooled himself into loving him, which was something completely different. He was too naïve and inexperienced to notice that, though, and he probably liked Grantaire a lot, which was why Grantaire had never discussed the subject with him or contradicted him. He knew that Enjolras would be really, really mad at him for the espionage deal, and even if he feared that, he knew that Enjolras liked him enough to forgive him.

                But why would like someone as ugly and fake as him?

                Maybe Enjolras would hate him. Maybe Enjolras would never forgive him. The selfish part of his brain begged him not to ruin the nice relationship he had gotten himself into by a miracle, begged him not to tell Enjolras anything. But there would be no other way. And even if there was, Enjolras deserved the truth. It was the least Grantaire could give him.

                He didn’t tell Enjolras about the dinner on that last night; only asked him to accompany him on a stroll. Enjolras had some essays to finish and asked Grantaire to wait a few minutes, which the cynic did. When they were ready and good to go, Grantaire leaded Enjolras to the café, which was crowded and it was a little similar to the Musain. Enjolras had given him a questioning look, then, confused.

                “I figured we should have a proper date”, Grantaire smiled at him, speaking over the voices of the people inside the café. “It’s been so long since we properly went out”.

                “Oh, R”, Enjolras gave him a sweet smile. He didn’t say anything else.

                They ordered the food with a waitress who seemed unsuspicious of their relationship, and they sat side by side on the balcony. The food was delicious and the café was noisy, which didn’t give them much room to speak to each other during the meal. After they left the place and stepped out on the cold, silent street, Enjolras nuzzled closer to him in a rare moment of intimacy that they could only share because the street was empty.

                “You shouldn’t have paid”, Enjolras muttered. “I could have…”

                “I know”, Grantaire planted a kiss on the top of his head. “But you left your card back at the hotel and I wanted to do something nice for you for once”.

                “You are nice to me”, Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Well, except when you argue with me out of spite, and when you disagree with me in front of everyone just to make me embarrassed, and when you –“

                “Alright, I get the point”, Grantaire interrupted with a chuckle. They arrived at the hotel and kept a respectful distance between themselves. The receptionist glared at them from where she was sitting behind the counter.

                “Evening”, Enjolras greeted, sympathetic as always. She didn’t respond, which was unusual.

                When they went to sleep, Enjolras snuggled closer to Grantaire and wrapped himself around the cynic (he was a clingy man on the bed). He fell asleep almost instantly, but Grantaire just couldn’t. He couldn’t help but to wonder what it would feel like to sleep without Enjolras around him anymore, what it would be like to never speak, touch or see him again. He didn’t want to lose that. But he didn’t want to deceive Enjolras anymore, either. These thoughts stole away his sleepiness and he spent the entire night awake, eyes glued to the ceiling and hands idly caressing Enjolras’ curls as he snored softly against his chest.

                Grantaire wished they could stay in Nice forever. Returning to Paris felt like an incoming doomsday to the feeling of happiness he had taken so long to establish, even if it was still weak and dull.

                On the following morning, Enjolras woke up when Grantaire had finally managed to doze off, and assuming his lover had slept as well as he had, he called him to get things ready. Grantaire did, grumpily so, and when he was faced with his own, ugly reflection in the bathroom’s mirror, he cringed at the dark circles under his eyes and the exhaustion marked clearly in his face. Enjolras, though, didn’t seem to notice, which made Grantaire inwardly chuckle. He was so ugly that his own boyfriend didn’t notice when he got even uglier.

                He helped Enjolras take their backpacks to the car and check out of the hotel, attended by a grumpy receptionist that kept glaring at them for no reason. Grantaire sleepily wondered if she had discovered about him and Enjolras, and yawned as the thought dissipated away from his sluggish brain as fast as it had appeared.

                When they were on the car on their way back to Paris, Grantaire finally mustered the courage to somewhat bring the dreaded subject up, but it was probably due to the sleepiness that made him lose his moral boundaries.

                “So… I wanted to talk to you about something when we get to Paris”, he said casually, not daring to look at Enjolras and staring out at the window as if this was a trivial matter.

                “What is it?”, Enjolras asked curiously but without taking his eyes out of the road.

                “You’ll know when we get there”, Grantaire shrugged with a smile. “I just wanted to let you know”.

                “Can’t you just say it right now?” Enjolras frowned. Grantaire let out a sigh. He should probably have kept his mind shut, but it would be less bad if he gave Enjolras some preparation.

                “Nah”, he said, putting his feet over the dashboard even though he knew Enjolras hated that. “It wouldn’t be wise”. Then he leaned forward and turned on the radio on a random music station, just to allow the subject to drop. Enjolras seemed curious but didn’t press on the matter.

                The trip was so long that Grantaire, sleep deprived and exhausted as he was, eventually dozed off, head leaning against the cold glass window. Thankfully, they weren’t stopped by any police patrols, which Enjolras found extremely suspicious but was thankful for. Since Grantaire was fast asleep on the seat beside him, he decided to go straight to his apartment instead of going to Joly’s as planned, and from there he would update his friends and take care of his still withdrawing boyfriend.

                Enjolras woke Grantaire up from his nap with a soft kiss on his cheek after he parked the car, and waited for the cynic to stretch and fully return to consciousness before exiting the car and going around it so that he could open the door for his boyfriend.

                “Such a gentleman”, Grantaire teased, looking around to see if the street was empty before stealing a quick kiss from Enjolras’ lips. He was so sleepy and tired that the anxiety from telling Enjolras the truth went unnoticed by his groggy mind and he followed the leader blindly up the stairs of his building and into the familiar apartment.

                “Ugh, I’m starving”, Grantaire complained absentmindedly as he stepped inside, Enjolras closing the door behind them. His brain felt like cotton and so did his tongue. The Montparnasse subject was momentarily forgotten and replaced by the growl in his stomach. “Want to go grab something?”

                “Sure”, Enjolras said, picking up the mail that had been shoved beneath his door in his absence and opening each envelope with disinterest. “Could you please text Combeferre and let him know we’ve arrived?”, Enjolras asked absentmindedly, setting his bag on the floor as he checked the papers for something of importance. Grantaire sat on his couch and fished out the phone from his pocket.

                “Will do”, he said, fishing his cracked phone out of his pocket and texting a quick message to Combeferre. “There, done. What do you feel like eating?” he asked without looking up from the screen and yawning. Enjolras didn’t respond, which made him lock the phone and look up at his boyfriend, only to find him staring without blinking at a piece of paper at his hands. “Enj?”, Grantaire asked, frowning and leaning forwards on the couch. Taking a closer look at Enjolras, noticed how his breathing was constricted and how tightly his fingers were crushing the paper. “Is everything ok?”

                A long moment of silence followed, and Enjolras’ labored breathing was the only thing to be heard in the living room. He still wasn’t answering, brow twitching slightly as it always did when he was confused. His nostrils flared a couple times and his eyes pooled with tears.

                “Enj?” Grantaire tried again, worried, getting up from the couch. Enjolras tensed up, clenching his jaw, and Grantaire stopped in his tracks.

                “Is this true?” Enjolras asked through gritted teeth, voice constricted, eyes never leaving the paper. Grantaire’s heart pace doubled speed.

                “Is what true?” he asked, voice small.

                Enjolras finally looked up at him, a mix of emotions showing in his eyes. Anger, disbelief, doubt and hurt were the most evident ones. Grantaire swallowed dry. Enjolras proceeded to close the small distance between them with two large steps and push the paper against Grantaire’s chest with more force than necessary, face pale and teeth worrying at his lower lip. His hands were trembling but he tried to pretend they weren’t. Grantaire took the paper with his own shaky hands, sparing Enjolras one last confused look before looking down at it, and his heart dropped to his stomach when he saw what was printed on it. It was a screenshot with all the messages he had sent to Montparnasse since he started going to the ABC meetings.

                **From: Grantaire:** **They talked about a rally that will take place some months from now (didn’t say when exactly). They don’t have much planned out yet. That’s all I know for now.**

 **From: Grantaire: Rally on gay rights and women rights planned for some time in this year. Very few people will attend. They’ll start giving out flyers to try to draw people to the cause. The owner of the Musain is sympathetic to the whole thing and lets them use the place for free.** **They want to overthrow Charles X.**

**From: Grantaire: I designed a few logotypes for their group, they’re going to decide which one they prefer on the next meeting and print it on flyers to try to attract more people to the cause.**

**From: Grantaire: They just discussed some shit about gay rights and the meeting ended early because someone there felt indisposed**

          Further down, there was a pendrive attached to the paper and a transcript.

**Montparnasse:** “You’re such a fucking bitch. I should have thought twice before sending you of all people to spy on them. I should have known that you wouldn’t be able to keep this cock inside your filthy pants. Don’t tell me you’re crushing on that blonde leader?

                **Grantaire:** “I’m not crushing on anyone. I’m doing what you told me to do. Getting to know more about them”.

                **Montparnasse:** “Lie to me again, and I’ll have Babet break your useless teeth. Let’s see how the little leader will like you then”.

                **Grantaire:** “Fuck off. I told you, I’m just doing what you asked”.

 

                Grantaire took in a deep, shaky breath, a knot in his throat. He looked up to see Enjolras glaring at him, tears welled in his eyes.

                “Enjolras”, he breathed out. “I can explain –“

                “Oh, yes, I am _sure_ you can explain”, Enjolras scoffed, grabbing the paper from Grantaire’s hand with violence. “I am sure that you can explain how you were spying on us and giving information about us to Montparnasse”.

                “Enjolras, just let me –“, he tried, verging on desperation.

                “How long has this been going on?” Enjolras interrupted, tearing the pendrive from the paper and scrunching with one hand it until it was a little ball that he threw on the floor. “Huh? How long have you been giving them information about Les Amis?”

                Grantaire swallowed dry. His chest was too tight for him to answer, and he could barely breathe. Something nauseous twisted inside his empty stomach and he felt like throwing up from nervousness. He was cold all over, hands sweating, as if all the blood in his body had been directed to his racing heart, leaving his limbs cold and numb. There was something inside him that was smothering him, making him unable to think or to do anything.

                “Answer me!”, Enjolras hissed, voice low and threatening, making Grantaire jolt. He swallowed dry once more.

                “Since the beginning”, he choked out, voice shaky and pathetic. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and the sweat starting to form on his brow. “But I swear, Enjolras, I stopped, they threatened me, that’s why I looked for Joly for help, I wanted out, I never wanted this in the first place, but I was addicted and Montparnasse was my only provider, I swear I didn’t want to do this, and I was going to tell you, that’s what I was talking about in the car, I was going to tell you as soon as we arrived, please, you have to belie –“

                “Believe you?!”, Enjolras interrupted, scowling. He sniffed before continuing. “How could I possibly believe you? Everything you told me was a lie”, he said, quickly wiping away a tear that had managed to escape his eye. He took in a deep breath as if to calm himself, looking at Grantaire with horror and disbelief. Shaking his head, he continued: “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is true. Tell me this isn’t true, R”. There was a hint of begging in his tone that made Grantaire’s throat constrict even more. He wanted to tell Enjolras that that was a lie, that he had been set up, that he had never spied on him.

                But Enjolras didn’t deserve that. Enjolras deserved the truth.

                “It’s true”, Grantaire said, needing to hold back a sob when Enjolras dropped the pendrive to the floor in his nervousness and covered his eyes with both shaky hands. “But I swear, I never gave him too much info, I wanted to protect you, I stopped sending him the reports and that’s why he beat me up on that day remember? Enjolras, I swear”, he dropped on his knees in front of Enjolras, begging, but the leader couldn’t even look at him. “Please, believe me”, he pleaded, grabbing hold of Enjolras’ arms, but he shrugged away from the cynic’s touch, disgusted. Grantaire fell on all fours on the floor in front of him, tears streaming freely down his face now. “Enjolras, please, I’m begging you”, he sobbed helplessly, fear and anxiety taking the best of him. “Please, I swear, I fell in love with you, that’s when I stopped, I stopped because I love you so much, please, believe me”.

                “Love?” Enjolras scorned, finally daring to look at Grantaire. “What do you know of love? Who have you ever loved, Grantaire?”

                “I love you!” Grantaire sobbed helplessly, pathetically, head lifted so that Enjolras could see the honesty in his eyes. He raised his hands towards him without ever touching him, in a begging position.

                “Stop lying to me!” Enjolras roared, furious, stepping away from Grantaire’s kneeling form. Grantaire’s hands found their way to his head and he pulled at his own hair, suppressing a scream. How could he have done that? “You never loved me!”, Enjolras continued. “If you did, you would have told me the truth! This is just one more of your lies!”, he didn’t bother wiping the tears away from his cheeks this time, shaking his head and turning his back to Grantaire as if to hide his face. “You used me”, he whispered, spat, sounding furious. “You took… you took advantage of me. I let you…”, he took in a deep, shaky breath. “You just fucked me to…”

                “Enjolras, no”, Grantaire whispered, horrified. He couldn’t have Enjolras think that; yes, he had lied, but he had never – he would never – use Enjolras or anyone like that. “No, I didn’t use you, I swear, I love you, please –“

                “Stop saying that!”, Enjolras snapped, kicking his coffee table in a burst of anger. “Stop lying!”

                “I’m not –“

                “Get out”, Enjolras panted, leaning heavily on his couch.

                “Enjolras –“, Grantaire tried, getting back to his feet even though his knees were wobbling, trying to touch Enjolras again.

                “Get the fuck out of my house!” he said, slapping Grantaire’s hand away.

                “Enjolras, please”, Grantaire sobbed, face scrunching up from the pain he was feeling inside. “I swear I stopped giving them information about you long ago, I never wanted to do this in the first place, they’re doing this to turn you against me, please, please, please”, he was saying, getting on his knees again, words barely understandable between the sobs. Enjolras gave him a hurt, angry look, and for a moment he looked like he could believe in Grantaire, but then his eyes widened with realization.

                “You told them about the protest”, he whispered, looking away from Grantaire and allowing his eyes to dart across the living room in horror. “That’s how they knew. That’s why they started searching people before we acted”.

                “Enjolras, no”, Grantaire whined. That wasn’t true.

                “You’re the reason the protest failed”, he shook his head in disbelief, stepping away from Grantaire with fear and hurt in his face. “You betrayed me”.

                “No, please, you have to –“

                “You betrayed me”, Enjolras repeated, tears running freely from his eyes now. All the previous anger seemed to leave him in a rush and all that was left in his expression was a deep, heart wrenching hurt that made Grantaire hate himself more than he had ever had in his entire life. “You betrayed me, and you lied to me, and you _used_ me”, he sounded disgusted.

                “Enjolras”, was all Grantaire managed to say, and he cringed when a sob erupted from Enjolras’ throat.

                “You used me!”, he yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at Grantaire. “You made me believe you loved me just to get information about me! You tricked me into fucking because you knew how I felt! You took advantage of me and my friends and you used us and you sold us and I hate you and I never want to see you again!”

                Enjolras covered his eyes with his hands once more, sobs wrecking their way through his body and making his chest convulse with the cheer force of it. Grantaire wanted to die. He wanted to make Enjolras happy. He wanted to be good for Enjolras. This was the extreme opposite of what he had ever wanted.

                “Leave”, Enjolras said between sobs, voice barely audible. Grantaire crawled his way towards him, helpless.

                “Please, Enjolras…”, he said, voice hoarse and low.

                “Leave!”, Enjolras yelled, marching to the front door and pulling it open. “Leave, go away, I don’t want to see you ever again, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”, he was sobbing, pulling Grantaire by the arm towards the door. Grantaire didn’t put up a fight, too empty and heavy and numb for that, and Enjolras carried his thin frame across the living room without difficulty. Before he could throw Grantaire out of the apartment, though, Grantaire mustered whatever energy he had left to grab hold of his beloved’s arm in one final attempt to reason with him.

                “Enjolras, please, I love you”, he cried helplessly.

Enjolras didn’t even look at him before throwing him out and slamming the door behind him.

Grantaire sobbed freely then, snot and tears mixing together as he curled in a fetal position on the floor of Enjolras’ hallway. He could hear the sound of glass breaking and of crying coming from inside Enjolras’ apartment, and this only made him cry harder. He lost track of time as he lied there, helpless, and he was crying so hard that he started to dry heave. Since he didn’t want to be much more of an inconvenience and puke all over Enjolras’ doormat, he got to his wobbly feet, leaning heavily against the wall, and managed to go down the stairs of Enjolras’ building.

                Once he got to the first floor, still crying and sobbing loudly, barely managing to sustain his own weight, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he was faced with a frowning Combeferre, who was saying something that he couldn’t hear over the ringing of his ears. Combeferre was frowning at him, and Enjolras had probably told him everything. He didn’t want to deal with the man’s hatred too, and before he could be scolded, he ran away, jogging out of the building with difficulty.

                He probably looked like a mess from the looks he was receiving in the street, but he couldn’t care less. Tears still streamed down his face and he was still sobbing loudly, drawing unwanted attention that he hated. He wanted to scream at these people, tell them to mind their own business, tell them to go fuck themselves, tell them to die, tell them anything that could make him feel slightly better. Instead, he bent over on an alley and vomited, the foul taste of bile burning his already aching throat and making him feel even shittier. He dry heaved as he leant his weight on his own knees, panting heavily and feeling sick. He stared at the puddle of his own vomit in front of him and shut his eyes tightly.

                The tears were still streaming down his face but he could no longer sob. With a stab to his heart, he realized that the dream of moving in with Enjolras was now destroyed forever. He was a fool to think that he deserved a happy ending, that he would ever be able to live a normal, fulfilling life beside the man he loved. No. The only thing he truly deserved was this – puking in an alley, only to return to his empty, destroyed apartment, because that was what he was going to do, wasn’t it? He no longer had Enjolras – he never, ever wanted to see him again, he _hated_ him, he **hated** him, he **_hated_** him – and he couldn’t go to Joly’s; as soon as he found out about what Grantaire had done he would hate him just as much as Enjolras and kick him out too. He didn’t deserve Joly’s sympathy.

                He found himself stumbling his way back to his apartment, throat constricted and heart twisting painfully. He never wanted to return to that place, a place covered in shadows and static and things that Grantaire had naively thought he could get rid of. Returning felt like a terrible backtrack, like returning to a previous level that he had already beaten just to live it all again. It was as if life had given him an opportunity to live life as he wanted to live, just to throw him back on that shithole when he finally found goodness in the world. He was so stupid to believe that he could ever find it.

He noticed the door handle was broken and that his front door was ajar. As he entered the apartment, he was faced with a chaotic mess: his coffee table was broken and tossed to the side, his couch had been torn to pieces by a knife, all the objects in his kitchen had been smashed and he didn’t even want to look at the rest of the house. The only thing that had remained the same was the static of his untouched TV, and that was when Grantaire finally allowed the scream that had been building in his throat burst out.

                He took the TV and threw it against the wall, breaking it irreparably and making the apartment drown in silence, static gone for good.

                He wanted to drink but lacked the energy necessary to go out and buy it. Plus, he had no money left, since he had spent everything on the dinner with Enjolras. Instead, he picked some pills from his bathroom cabinet and swallowed them dry, since the sink had been broken too. He wondered if the painkillers would help with the emotional pain he was feeling.

                Grantaire then stumbled to the art room, pushing the door open and falling on his face, legs too trembly to maintain him upright anymore. He then saw the portrait he had painted of Enjolras, untouched and at the same place he had left it before leaving. Seeing his… no, not his, nevermore his. Seeing Enjolras made him cry softly, chest too heavy for him to sob again. He merely laid there, on the dirty floor of his art room, curled around himself and crying lowly for what could have been an eternity.

                That was how the secret police found him hours later, breaking into his apartment without difficulty. Grantaire had heard the sounds of their arrival and of indistinct chatter, but didn’t move an inch from his grieving place on the floor. Why would him? He had no money, no place to go, no more to live for. There was no point in fighting them.

                The men grabbed him with violence even though he wasn’t resisting. In fact, he wasn’t doing anything, merely hanging from their grasps in either of his arms like dead weight. His head hung low between his lifted shoulders, and he was being dragged from his art room, away from Enjolras’ face, that was a fond memory of him even if it wasn’t real, and Grantaire whined. Then, he was thrown to the ground unceremoniously, falling hard on his knees.

                A hand caressed his cheek softly and Grantaire looked up, startled, only to see that it was Montparnasse. He turned his head away from the man’s touch, disgusted, and Montparnasse clicked his tongue.

                “Oh, R”, he sighed, standing up straight and walking away from the cynic to stand beside one of the secret police men. “It didn’t have to end like this. If only you hadn’t strayed”, he said, fake mourning in his voice. “I told you I was going to destroy your life”, he pouted.

                “Fuck you”, was all Grantaire had the energy to growl, voice hoarse from all the crying.

                “Oh, no, no, no!”, Montparnasse exclaimed, seeming surprised. “No, I don’t fuck men, that’s illegal. You, on the other hand… you might have some explaining to do”.

                Grantaire looked up to see a wicked smirk dancing on Montparnasse’s lips, and frowned in confusion. That was when one of the police men stepped forward in a military posture and said:

                “Grantaire, you are accused of the crimes of fornication, sodomy, recreational use of forbidden drugs, vagrancy, creation of subversive art, creation of subversive material, participation on subversive encounters, plotting a coup d’État and treason against the Chancellor and the country of France. The punishment for those crimes is death. Do you have anything to say on your defense?”

                Grantaire stared up at the police man with dull eyes and a blank expression. He remained silent.

                “You will be publicly hanged at Parvis Notre-Dame in four days. God have mercy on your soul”.

                And with that, there were hands on him again, dragging him across his ruined apartment and out of with. Grantaire didn’t fight them. Firstly, he wouldn’t be able to, and secondly, there was no point. He was dead from the moment Enjolras kicked him out of his house. He allowed his head to drop low and didn’t make a sound when he was thrown harshly on the back of a secret police van.

                As the vehicle took off, he closed his eyes. Images of Enjolras’ furious, disgusted face filled his head, and the words he had said to Grantaire echoed in his mind as he pulled his knees closer to his chest in the darkness of the van that was leading him to his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes


	10. Chapter 10

Enjolras had always known what love was.

                He loved his friends. He loved his mother, even if they hadn’t spoken in years. He loved his grandfather, who he had made sure to keep visiting despite his beef with his family, until the day he died. He loved his cat, who passed away a few months before due to his advanced age – he was already old when Enjolras rescued him from the shelter. But most of all, he loved his Patria.

                That was his first and only true love until Grantaire appeared in his life.

                But even loving Grantaire as much as he did, Enjolras was never capable of putting his Patria aside for his cynic’s sake. He loved them both equally, each in their own different, special way. His heart was big enough for that, and when he loved something or someone, he never did it half-heartedly.

                He could have never expected to fall in love with Grantaire, out of all the people in the world. Even if he had always known what it was like to love and be loved, Enjolras had never spared much of his time to romantic interests, or at least never dared to go further than quick infatuations that went away as soon as they started. As he grew older and more mature, he realized that if he really wanted to change things for the better, he would need to devote his life to it. And how could he devote his life if his heart belonged to someone else? No, he couldn’t deal with relationships. He needed to focus on his cause and on his Patria, the only true love of his life.

                His first serious crush was Feuilly. He knew he would never be able to have any sorts of romantic relationship with him – the man was already seeing someone else, and clearly only thought of Enjolras as a friend. But still, Enjolras couldn’t help but to blush whenever Feuilly complimented him, and whenever they got too close and alone with each other. He knew it was stupid and silly, and just a crush that would go away with no time, but that wasn’t enough for him to keep from touching himself while thinking of Feuilly’s hands on him, pleasuring him, and this, on the other hand, made him feel incredibly guilty and unable to meet the ginger’s eyes for a few days. He decided to stop, to abstain from doing that, because it felt wrong and he had better things to do with his spare time.

                 And then Grantaire appeared in his life, and Enjolras still didn’t understand why he fell in love with him. The man looked like death itself – sunken eyes that were covered by dark lids and purplish shadows; a huge nose that was the most prominent feature of his face, but still somewhat managed to fit it perfectly; disheveled, messy dark hair that was all curly and thick; and an extremely thin frame that showed that he was either very sick or that he hadn’t eaten in days. When he first entered the Musain, Enjolras thought that he was a homeless person looking for shelter. Were it not for Joly recognizing him, he would have sincerely offered him a place to stay and some food.

                Grantaire was clearly cynic, obnoxious and didn’t believe the slightest bit that they would succeed in what they were doing. But Enjolras found himself extremely curious and admiring beneath all the frustration towards the man, wanting to know more about him and his life. Grantaire disagreed with almost everything that he said, but still gave Enjolras warm and adoring looks that made his stomach churn and his heart race. It felt almost as if he was trying to believe; or, at least, as if he believed in Enjolras. He could feel himself crushing on that weird, cynic boy that had randomly entered his life, even if he had known him for just a few days, and felt confused about it. And Enjolras hated that. He hated how intensely he felt things; how he never did anything half-heartedly. And for a few moments that didn’t last, he even hated Grantaire for making him feel what he felt so quickly.

                But even when Grantaire was a pain in the ass and humiliated him in public, he just couldn’t hate him, no matter how he tried.

                There was something clearly going on in Grantaire’s life, something that not even Joly knew what it was when Enjolras asked. It made him worried sick about the cynic, and eventually, his feelings for him only grew to a stage that was bigger than anything Enjolras had ever experienced in the terms of romantic love. When he confessed his feelings for him, he did so on impulse – he hadn’t meant to pathetically expose himself like that to a man he had barely met – but when Grantaire reciprocated them, he realized he had never felt that warm inside. His love and worry for his Patria would remain there as strong as they were, but it felt nice to have Grantaire by his side, too. Arguing with him kept Enjolras motivated, because if there was something that Enjolras wanted to do other than saving his Patria, was to make Grantaire believe. Loving his Patria made Grantaire more believing, and loving Grantaire made Enjolras more human.

                He had been worried but not surprised when Grantaire admitted to his addiction to morphine. He was clearly an alcoholic, always drinking and sounding drunk whenever he showed up at meetings, but Enjolras had suspected that there was something else behind all that. But he was glad that Grantaire had decided to quit. And he would happily help him with whenever he needed to. Enjolras loved him so much; he would do whatever it took to keep him happy and safe.

                He was aware of how rude he was to Grantaire sometimes, and how it probably affected his clearly low self-esteem. He infuriated Enjolras so badly sometimes, and he knew exactly how to get to his nerves. But he also didn’t deserve to hear the things Enjolras said to him. He deserved to be happy and pleased with himself, even if he was a pain in the ass sometimes.

                Plus, Enjolras desired Grantaire like mad.

                Virginity had never been a taboo to Enjolras; he had never tried to hide the fact that he was a virgin. He wanted his first time to be special, yes, and wanted it to be with someone he loved, rather than doing it just to get rid of his virginity. Grantaire was special enough to him, being the first person that he actually fell in love with, and when he agreed to have sex with Enjolras, even after the stress of the unsuccessful rally and their argument, Enjolras had never felt more special. He had never come so hard, too, which was also a plus factor to his relationship with the cynic. Enjolras felt happy and complete by Grantaire’s side, almost enough to consider, faintly, to put his Patria aside for a few hours of his time.

                That was, until Enjolras found out everything.

                As soon as he read and made sense of the words printed on that paper, his whole world collapsed. It felt as if the floor had been taken from beneath his feet, as if everything he took as a truth crumbled until the only things left were dust and emptiness. The air had been expelled from his lungs to give place to a tight knot inside his throat. Because of course, there had to be a catch, hadn’t it? There had to be something wrong about his perfect, idealized relationship with a man who had absolutely no reason to go to Enjolras’ meetings and enter Enjolras’ life. He had been so stupid. He had been so goddamn stupid for believing that Grantaire would ever fall in love like Enjolras did, so fast and fully and irrevocably. He hated himself for being as naïve as Grantaire always called him, for believing that someone was as stupid as him to the point of falling in love over the course of two weeks. He couldn’t look Grantaire in the eye anymore, not after that. He had to send him away.

                Plus, Grantaire didn’t betray just Enjolras. He betrayed the Amis, and most of all, he betrayed Enjolras’ Patria. The same Patria that had been Enjolras’ first love, that had been everything Enjolras fought for in his life. Enjolras could forgive Grantaire for betraying him – after all, it had been Enjolras’ own fault for being so naïve and stupid – but he could never forgive Grantaire for betraying his Patria. He just couldn’t. Grantaire was willing to exchange the freedom of his own friends, his own compatriots, for morphine and whatever else Montparnasse gave him. He had betrayed Enjolras. He had hurt him more than anyone ever had.

                And Grantaire had used him. Taken advantage of him, taken his virginity over something that Enjolras had mistaken dumbly for love when it was, in fact, only a cheap opportunity to get laid that Grantaire couldn’t miss. He felt used. He felt dirty.

                His heart ached so hard that he felt like he was dying.

                He couldn’t stop crying even as he called Combeferre for help, because Combeferre was his best friend and he always knew how to make Enjolras feel better – even if he thought that feeling better would be very difficult given the circumstances. Combeferre arrived in less than five minutes, opening the unlocked door and rushing his way to Enjolras’ curled form while sustaining a confused frown and a worried face.

                “Enjolras, what happened?” was the first thing he asked, kneeling beside his crying friend on the floor. “I just passed by Grantaire on the stairs, did you guys fight?”

                Enjolras couldn’t respond, hugging his knees tightly against his chest and trying his best to take deep breaths between his sobs. He hated crying in front of other people, but Combeferre was the closest person to him in his life. Instead of saying anything, he merely pushed the balled paper with the evidence against Grantaire to Combeferre and slowly opened his shaky hand to reveal the concealed pendrive that had been hidden inside his fist all along. Combeferre, still frowning, took the ball and then the pendrive, opening the paper and reading its content. His frown deepened right before disappearing altogether, his confused expression giving place to a horrified one.

                “Oh no”, he whispered under his breath, eyes running across the scrunched paper. “Oh no, Enjolras”.

                Enjolras merely allowed his head to sink deeper behind his folded arms, sobbing weekly one last time before going silent.

                “And what is this?” Combeferre asked, looking at the pendrive. Enjolras didn’t respond, face completely hidden by the crook of his arms now. “You didn’t check it out yet, right?”. The leader nodded. Combeferre set the pendrive on the floor in front of them and nuzzled closer to Enjolras, pulling his best friend into a heartfelt hug, even though he remained on the same, stiff position on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. “I’m so, so sorry, Enjolras. I should have seen through him. I had my suspicions but… I thought I was just being paranoid. And his story about the morphine made sense… I’m so sorry. This isn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

                “But it is”, Enjolras protested, voice muffled by his legs and hoarse from crying. “I should have known. I shouldn’t have trusted him, I shouldn’t have put Patria aside”.

                “But you didn’t”, Combeferre tried to sound reassuring, slowly caressing Enjolras’ curls. Enjolras flinched away from his touch, even though he longed for some kind – any kind – of comfort. “You didn’t put Patria aside, my friend. As much as the protest didn’t go as we wanted it to, it still rose awareness and more people to our cause. You didn’t fail, Enjolras. Plus, it wasn’t your fault that Grantaire tricked you; he tricked all of us –“

                “He used me”, Enjolras snarled, sounding disgusted. A long time passed before he continued, and Combeferre waited patiently until he was ready to speak again. “I let him have me”, Enjolras continued, voice lower. “Back at Nice. I let him…”, he took in a deep, shaky breath before lifting his head until only his eyes showed behind his arms. He looked up at his best friend with a sad expression. “It was all for information, Combeferre”, he said, grief clear in his tone. “It was all because he wanted…”, he trailed off, eyes dancing around the room and unable to meet Combeferre’s again.

                “Don’t think about it now, Enj”, Combeferre sighed sadly, rubbing a comforting hand across Enjolras’ back.

                “How can I not?” Enjolras whined, holding his head between his hands. “I love him”, he confessed, shutting his eyes tightly. “I love him even after finding this out. I love him, even if it breaks my heart and makes me want to scream. And I hate myself for loving him. I hate myself for being unable to hate him”. He started to sob again, and allowed Combeferre to pull his head into his lap and run soothing traces along his scalp while he cried. The guide tried to shush him to no avail.

                Enjolras’ heart was tight inside his chest and it throbbed painfully with each heartbeat. He felt deceived. He felt used. He felt like a fool. Nothing else mattered, on that precise moment. All he could think of was Grantaire, and the way he had sobbed and begged for Enjolras’ forgiveness, on his knees, mere minutes ago.

                “Why don’t I make you some tea?” Combeferre offered gently after a few minutes of caressing Enjolras’ hair. “I’m sure you will feel a little better after a nice tea”.

                Enjolras merely nodded, throat too tight to form any sentence. Combeferre picked a cushion from the couch and gently placed it beneath Enjolras’ head, before getting up from the floor and heading to the kitchen. Enjolras missed the way Combeferre picked the pendrive and took it with him.

                All he could think of was Grantaire. He loved him so much, and yet he never wanted to see him again. His chest hurt and he allowed another sob to escape, frustrated. How could Grantaire have done that to him? How could he betray Enjolras’ trust like that?

                How had he been stupid enough to believe him?

                And mostly, why was he reacting like this? Grantaire was just another one of the many snakes that had invaded his life to try to bring him down. He couldn’t just lie there on the floor, crying like a pathetic mess, and allow Grantaire to win. If he gave up because of Grantaire’s betrayal, he would be letting him win. And he couldn’t win. He couldn’t.

                But at the same time, the thought of sitting up on that moment seemed too exhausting for him. The pain in his chest distracted him from anything else.

                Combeferre returned with his tea and placed the mug on the floor beside Enjolras’ head without any word, proceeding to sit on the couch and lean one of his legs against Enjolras’ arm as a way to let him know that he was there. Enjolras heard the sound of typing and looked up to see his own laptop on Combeferre’s lap, headphones and pendrive pinned to it. He turned his head away. He didn’t want to see any more evidence that would only make things even worse.

                Suddenly, he felt angry. How would he explain to all his friends that they had been fooled, and that he, out of all of them, had directly allowed that to happen? How would he be able to tell them that he had loved and trusted Grantaire, that they took care of him and supported him while all he did was to spy on them and that now they were all in danger because of th –

                Wait. Grantaire knew where he lived.

                He knew where several Amis lived.

                “Combeferre”, Enjolras called, breath catching in his throat. He struggled to get himself into a sitting position, nearly knocking down the mug with the tea. He – they – needed to get out of there. If Grantaire told whoever the hell had hired him about Enjolras’ home and plans, he would certainly be arrested and killed. And he couldn’t die yet, not with so many things to do. “Combeferre, we need to get out of here”, he panted, getting to his wobbly feet. Combeferre, however, was frowning at whatever it was on the screen of the notebook on his lap. “Combeferre!”, he basically yelled, and the guide finally looked up at him, eyes surprise.

                Enjolras didn’t have time to repeat himself, though, for his phone became to ring and he picked it up without thinking, hands still shaking. His heart skipped a beat upon realizing that it was Joly.

                “Hello?” Enjolras said sharply, even though he knew that Joly didn’t have any idea about Grantaire’s betrayal.

                “Enjolras, what the fuck is going on?”, Joly basically screamed at the phone, voice shaking.

                And oh, Enjolras got it now. Grantaire probably told him a different side of the story and put him against Enjolras.

                “Joly, listen to me, whatever he told you –“

                “Why the fuck was he arrested? What happened? Why didn’t you tell us?”, Joly interrupted, sounding terrified.

                “W… What?”, Enjolras immediately asked, frowning. Arrested?

                “Enjolras, what the hell?” Joly asked, and he sounded as if he was running. “I’m almost at yours, open the door”.

                Enjolras was glued to his feet, unresponsive. Combeferre finally raised his eyes to look at him, and frowned.

                “Enjolras, are you ok?” he asked, and that was enough to make Enjolras’ legs come to life. He mechanically walked to the door and pulled it open mere seconds before Joly appeared at the end of the hall, being followed by Lesgle and Musichetta.

                They entered Enjolras’ apartment unceremoniously, passing by Enjolras without greeting him, Joly’s face flushed and breathing rapid. He looked to be on the verge of a panic attack.

                “Ok, you’ve got some serious explaining to do”, Joly said, voice shaky and frantic, pointing at Enjolras with one hand and clutching at his own hip with the other until his knuckles were white. Combeferre set the laptop aside and stood up beside Enjolras.

                “What are you talking about?” Combeferre asked seriously. Bossuet rolled his eyes and bent over to grab the TV remote, turning it on and putting it on the news channel.

                All blood left Enjolras’ face when he saw the image on the screen. The reporter was solemnly standing in front of an old, falling-to-pieces building, a police car behind him.

                “Just a few minutes ago, Chancellor Charles X’s Special Police has done its duty once more and arrested a man accused of sodomy, homosexuality and subversive behavior, amongst other crimes. The man offered no resistance and several pieces of evidence have been found inside his apartment, including subversive posters, homosexual art and illicit drugs. His trial will be tomorrow morning”.

                The image of the reporter disappeared to give place to a recording of Grantaire being dragged, apparently boneless, by two police officers who threw him mercilessly on the back of a police van and took off while a voice over gave the information they had managed to gather about Grantaire’s life.

                Then another reporter appeared interviewing a woman, who Enjolras recognized, with horror, to be the receptionist of the hotel where he and Grantaire had stayed.

                “At first, I suspected nothing, because the hotel was full and it was reasonable to let him share the room with another man, right? But then there was a free room and they did nothing, they stayed there sharing the room. I found it a bit odd but it wasn’t my business to meddle with. And then the room cleaner found a used condom inside their room, and that was when I contacted the police right away, but they had already left. I’m just glad that they caught this pervert before –“

                Enjolras couldn’t watch it any longer. He grabbed the remote away from Bossuet’s hand and turned the TV off.

                He couldn’t face any of their friends. He didn’t know what to do. Grantaire had betrayed them, but still, he didn’t deserve to be publicly executed. No one did. The hand holding the remote was shaking so hard that he dropped it, and the clacking sound it did as it connected with the floor and Enjolras’ labored breathing were the only sounds in the apartment.

                “Enjolras, what’s going on here?” Musichetta asked, taking a step forward. She seemed to have noticed that there was something wrong. “What are you not telling us?”

                Enjolras couldn’t face his friends on that moment. His back was turned to them as he stood in front of the TV, a trembling mess, hands closed into fists.

                “Grantaire was giving information about us for Montparnasse”, Combeferre explained in a serious tone when Enjolras didn’t say anything. “He betrayed us. Enjolras found everything out and sent him away”.

                There was a long silence in which no one dared to speak.

                “No”, Joly said, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe it. There’s no way that –“ he trailed off, looking at Combeferre with plead in his eyes.

                “There’s evidence, Joly”, Combeferre said, almost apologetically, handing him the scrunched paper. “And there is a video. I was just watching it”.

                Enjolras couldn’t hear it any longer. He didn’t want to watch Grantaire betraying him, to hear the words coming out of his mouth, with his voice. Seeing that paper was already too much. He promptly marched his way out of his living room and locked himself inside his bedroom, refusing to look at any of his friends as he passed them.

                He had already broken a glass as soon as Grantaire left, but now the fury and frustration inside him grew bigger and he felt the need to let it out. He turned his bookshelf into a chaotic mess, books hanging from the edges and scattering all over his floor. He threw his lampshade against the wall opposite to him and couldn’t suppress the scream that left his throat as he did so, falling to his knees. He had never felt that amount of self-loathing before. He blamed himself for allowing Grantaire to do that. He blamed himself for opening himself so easily to him. He blamed himself for everything that Grantaire had done, even though he knew, deep inside, that was not his fault.

                When he fell to his bed, he started to sob again, burying his face in his pillow to muffle the sound. He had already embarrassed himself enough in front of his friends; the last thing he needed right now was their pity. He bit the fabric of the pillow in an attempt to stop from crying, but the tears kept streaming down his face and staining the surface of the bed.

                The reasonable, mostly naïve part of his brain tried to argue with his intense emotions _. What if he was being forced to do it? What if they were threatening him? What if? What if? What if?_

                But right on that moment, his rancor spoke louder than all his other doubts. After all, if Grantaire truly loved him he would have told him the truth long ago, right? If he truly loved Enjolras, he would have never lied in the first place.

                _But he told you on the car, that he wanted to talk to you. Then, he said that he wanted to talk about this subject. What if he was telling the truth? What if he was going to tell you, but you just happened to receive the mail first?_

                Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat. He wanted to believe that. He wanted that to be true. Memories of a pleading, sobbing, desperate Grantaire clinging to his leg, on his knees, filled his head, and he couldn’t hold back a sob. What if Grantaire was truly sorry and Enjolras kicked him out anyway?

                A sudden thought entered Enjolras’ mind and he froze on the spot, breath catching in his throat.

                If he hadn’t kicked Grantaire out, he wouldn’t have been arrested.

                An overwhelming sense of guilt flooded his heart, but the petty part of his brain told him that if there was anyone who was supposed to feel guilty, that person was Grantaire. He had lied to Enjolras. He had sold him out. He was the guilty one. Not Enjolras. Grantaire.

                Enjolras brain remained stuck in this dilemma, alternating between angry, guilty and worried, wondering how the hell he was supposed to find his way out of this situation and how to glue back the pieces of his broken heart to become a functional human being again. Eventually, he fell asleep, exhaustion from all the stress taking the best of him and sending him into a dreamless, unquiet sleep that made him fidget on the sheets and toss and turn throughout the whole night. When he woke up, was to see Combeferre standing by his bed, a concerned look in his eyes that was almost unnoticeable on the midst of his stoic expression.

                “What time is it?” Enjolras croaked, passing an arm above his eyes to block out the light in the room. His head was throbbing and his eyes felt puffy.

                “Almost 10 a.m.”, Combeferre explained, and from the way Enjolras felt the mattress shift slightly, he assumed that Combeferre had sat on the edge of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

                “Like I was run over by a truck several times in a row”, Enjolras said with honesty. Usually, he hated to victimize himself, but even though he had slept through the entire night, he still felt weary to the bone, and tiredness always made him more honest. Combeferre hummed with sympathy.

                “Drink this”, his best friend said simply, handing him a cup of cool water and a pill that Enjolras didn’t bother to try and recognize. He leaned on an elbow, eyes closed, and blindly grabbed the cup, drinking all its content with the pill. He fell back to the mattress without another sound, he covered his eyes with the crook of his arm once more.

                A long silence stretched between them, Enjolras secretly hoping that Combeferre would leave him alone to his thoughts. But eventually, the guide broke the silence.

                “We need to talk about this, Enjolras”, was all he said.

                “I don’t want to talk about this”, Enjolras sighed, suddenly feeling annoyed even though he had it coming.

                “I know. But we need to”, Combeferre stated matter-of-factly. Enjolras’ lips shut tight to form a thin line, and he unconsciously turned his head away from his friend even though his eyes were covered. Combeferre took in a deep breath, and straightened his glasses before continuing. “I saw the contents of the pendrive yesterday, Enjolras”.

                Enjolras’ heart pace doubled, but he still didn’t say anything. His pride was too strong for that. He tried to even his breathing out, but Combeferre, knowing him as he did, immediately noticed how badly his friend wanted to hear what he had to say, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

                “All evidence suggests that he was being coerced, Enjolras”, Combeferre continued after a few seconds of tense silence. “I know this whole thing is hard to take in”, he sighed. “I’m pretty mad at him myself, for everything he’s done. But they tagged his place. They have been filming him for months, and… he was serious about his addiction, Enj. Actually, it’s a miracle he made it so far, from the amount of…” he trailed off, noticing Enjolras’ discomfort. “Well”, he continued, after a small pause. “They did beat him up, pretty badly, I’d say. And… Well. He lied to them. Not about everything, but he changed a few crucial details that might have saved our skin for a while. But the fact that they sent you all this shows that they know where you live. Which is why you’re moving in with me for a while”.

                “What?” Enjolras said, removing his arm from the top of his eyes and staring at Combeferre.

                “You heard me”, Combeferre said, impassive. “You can’t stay here any longer; it’s too dangerous. I already packed your essentials while you slept”.

                “Combeferre…”

                “You know I’m right about this, Enjolras. Get yourself ready, we need to leave as soon as possible”, he said finally, standing up from the bed and making his way to the door. Before he could exit the room, though, Enjolras called him.

                “Ferre”, he said, voice still hoarse and throat aching. His best friend stopped on his tracks, turning to stare at Enjolras’ curled form on the bed. Enjolras swallowed dry several times before gathering the courage necessary to ask what he wanted to know. “Has… has he been through trial yet?”

                Combeferre gave him a sad look before nodding.

                “And…”, Enjolras asked, tearing his eyes away from Combeferre’s pitying face. “And how… will he…”, he trailed off. He couldn’t voice the question he wanted to make. “What was the veredict?”, he finally settled for asking, voice constricted. His eyes met Combeferre’s once more, and he saw the truth in them. Still, he needed to hear the words.

                “Guilty”, Combeferre said, voice quiet, and he sounded so, so sorry. Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat. “He’ll be hanged at Notre Dame in three days”.

                Enjolras didn’t say anything else, lying helplessly on the bed. Combeferre spared him one last, sad look before leaving the room, closing the door behind him and cutting off all sources of light inside the bedroom. Enjolras’ eyes had long grown accustomed to the darkness when he finally gathered enough courage to get up.

                                                                                                              -

                They threw him inside a dark, humid and stinky cell, but that had not been unexpected, really. He didn’t deserve anything better than that.

                He was too lethargic to cry, and all his tears had dried down anyway. The position that he had fell on the floor when the guards threw him was terribly uncomfortable, but he couldn’t find it in himself to move. The trial was just a senseless formality that he would have to go through; his sentence had already been delivered to him and hanged above his head.

                Ha. Hanged. He even managed to make a pun out of his shitty situation.

                God, he wished he had even the tiniest bit of morphine with him.

                He didn’t sleep. Unconsciousness loomed somewhere inside his messy mind, but he was still somewhat aware of his surroundings and of the disgusting stain of moss on the wall in front of him. Enjolras was the only constant thought in his head, but even that became blurry in the face of what would happen to him.

                He would die. He would be hanged and die. And Enjolras would probably watch.

                Enjolras would probably be happy with his death.

                That was the only thing that sent a single sob out of his throat, making the sound echo on the empty cell for so long that Grantaire was no longer sure whether it was actually still resonating within the walls or if it was just his imagination.

                In the morning, two guards opened the door and grabbed him by his armpits, raising him into a standing position. But he wouldn’t walk. As much as he didn’t believe that the ABC could change anything, he didn’t believe in the government either. And giving these pricks some hard time while doing their job felt like the least he could do to honor Enjolras’ lost love for him. They had to drag him all the way to the court, panting from the weight – even though he didn’t weight much.

                “You’ll regret this, you fag”, one of the guards said, breathing labored. “You’ll see”.

                Then he threw Grantaire on a chair that he hadn’t even noticed, and disappeared from his view.

                All Grantaire could see when he finally raised his head was a lot of flashlights blinking at him and several people with blurry faces that he couldn’t recognize. Someone was speaking something, sounding solemn, but he couldn’t pay attention for the life of him. Not that he wanted to, either. Everything was a cloud of random lights and a background voice, and all that was crossing his mind on that moment was the image of Enjolras crying, and the thought of how hard he had hurt the man he loved most in the world.

                He was starting to somewhat doze off when a man entered the room, footsteps echoing due to the domed ceiling. Grantaire’s heart tightened when he saw what he was carrying. It was the portrait he had made of Enjolras, ruined by Montparnasse but still clearly the leader. The judge was saying something that he couldn’t hear over the frantic beating of his heart resonating in his own ears. His breath caught in his throat. Enjolras would think he was a pervert. Enjolras would think he was some sort of depraved man, who had lusted him from the beginning, and who only wanted his body, instead of his heart. Enjolras would hate him even more.

                Was Enjolras even watching this?

                He was partially aware of his stash of morphine being presented as evidence alongside the painting, and one of the posters he had designed for the ABC, but if anything else was shown to the judge, Grantaire didn’t see it. He couldn’t stand looking at any of those cameras, knowing that Enjolras might see the guilty, ashamed look in his eyes and scowl at it. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

                Grantaire was so out of it that he barely even noticed the guards picking him back up and dragging him back to his cold cell until he was thrown harshly against the stone floor once more. His focus was scarce and he remembered little of the trial, too apathetic to care about it. But he was taken by surprise when a sudden, sharp pain invaded his upper torso and he realized that he had been kicked in the chest, all air being expelled from his lungs.

                “I told you you’d fucking regret that, you piece of shit”, one of the guards told him, giving him another kick, this time on the stomach, as if to emphaticize his point. “You think yourself good enough to walk, huh? You think I’m supposed to carry your filthy ass around whenever you feel like it?”, he kicked Grantaire once more, then twice, then thrice, until Grantaire was doubling over on himself and dry heaving. Nothing other than bile came out, though, since he hadn’t eaten anything for a long while. The guard took advantage of his position to give him another kick, right between his ribs, sending him flying back and falling on his side.

                “Hey, that’s enough”, a foreign voice coming from outside the cell said. “You can keep doing this tomorrow, otherwise you’ll end up killing him”.

                “You’re right”, his aggressor said, panting. He spat on Grantaire’s face, making the cynic cringe at the feeling of saliva dripping down his cheek. “I’ll save my best moves for this little bitch tomorrow. Maybe I can even make him scream”, he laughed, a sickening sound, pushing Grantaire to his back before turning around and leaving the cell, the metallic door closing with a clang.

                Grantaire stayed on that same position for a long while, the smell of his own vomit making him sick all over again. All he could do through the stabbing sensation of his chest was crawl his way to the corner of the cell, trying to find whatever comfort he could on the damp cold walls. He curled into himself, no longer knowing if the pain in his chest was due to the beating or to Enjolras, and he eventually fell asleep like that, shivering and trembling in the dark just like he used to do in his apartment, except that the soothing static was no longer there.

                In his dreams, he held Enjolras in his arms, smiling softly at the tiny snore the leader gave as he slept. He could even smell the soft, warm scent emanating from Enjolras’ hair.

                Then a slap to his face woke him up, making him yelp in surprise only to be laughed at by the guard on the top of him. They threw a bucket of ice cold water on his face, making Grantaire huff the water that had made its way inside his nostrils in surprise before being picked up and thrown on the wall opposite to him. His ribs protested, aching painfully, and he groaned in pain as he tried to crawl away from his aggressor without success. The man pinned him down to the floor with one booted foot, making him unable to move further away.

                On that day, they turned his already hideous face into even more of a mess. Some of the guards took turns punching his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, his eyes. He was sure his nose was broken, from the way tears escaped his eyes without stopping and the way the blood kept oozing from his nostrils. He did nothing, though. He offered no resistance.

                He deserved everything that he was getting.

                And he was thankful enough that his teeth got out of that whole situation intact, for some miraculous reason.

                He didn’t fall asleep on that day; he merely passed out from all the punching and kicking. He didn’t dream of Enjolras, or anything, really, he was rather immersed into a state of comforting blackness to be aware of anything else.

                He only hoped there was a way to make Enjolras believe in his love, even after everything that he had done. Grantaire didn’t expect his forgiveness – he didn’t deserve it, anyway – but to have his love, the only pure thing he had ever experienced, discredited like that, even though it was mostly his fault, felt too unfair to the truth of his feelings.

                But what difference would that make? He would die anyway, whether Enjolras believed him or not. Even if there was a way to show Enjolras that he loved and respected him, it wouldn’t make any difference. His hatred for Grantaire would still be there.

                Morning came, and Grantaire woke up on his own rather than being awoken by the guards like on the previous days. He knew that he was supposed to be terrified – he was going to die, after all – but his heart was beating as achingly slowly as it had been since he arrived. Death had never scared him before, and it wasn’t going to start scaring him now. The only thing that made him afraid was Enjolras’ rage.

                The guards arrived full of scorn and taunting, not waiting for Grantaire to get to his feet before dragging him out of the cell. They knew he wouldn’t (be able to) put up any resistance against them, which was rather sad, really. Even if he miraculously managed to escape, where would he go to? He had no money, no friends, no safety. He wouldn’t add anything to the world anyways. He deserved to die, for hurting Enjolras like he did. He deserved to die for betraying his friends, the men who had so easily accepted and taken care of him.

                He was once more thrown into the back of a van after one of the guards tied both his hands behind his back. His ribs were aching but he grew used to the pain. It would all go away soon enough.

                His only regret was not being able to tell Enjolras that he loved him one last time.

                He got so distracted – as usual – from thinking of Enjolras that he didn’t notice that the van had reached its destination until the doors were pulled open harshly. He didn’t wait to be pulled out, for once. He didn’t want his last image to the world to be of an invalid, incapable, fragile man who couldn’t even walk his way to his own noose, as much meaningless as that sudden sense of pride was. Ignoring the burning in his ribs, he limped his way up to a makeshift stage set up in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame, being pushed forwards by the guard behind him. The square was full of people; Grantaire estimated that at least a thousand people were agglomerated on the place, eyes fixed on him. Why were they there anyway? To sadistically watch his death? To celebrate his departure? Did it even matter, really?

He ran his eyes through the crowd, subconsciously hoping to spot a familiar mop of golden curls, but it was to no avail. Enjolras wasn’t there. Why would he be? He hated Grantaire.

                The three days he spent on prison without eating and scarcely drinking anything caught up to him and he started to feel dizzy. His knees faltered but he couldn’t give in now. The guard behind him supported him by the elbow, propping him forwards aggressively.

                “Are you gonna faint, you pussy?” he growled on Grantaire’s ear. The cynic shrugged away from his touch, stepping forwards until he reached the noose that would take his life. He stared up at it with a stern look, letting out a shaky sigh. Wasn’t he supposed to be afraid?

                Having his hands tied behind his back was starting to grow more uncomfortable by the second, making his stiff shoulders burn along with his ribs. The hangman promptly passed the noose around his neck and pulled it until it was tight around his flesh, but not enough to prevent him from breathing. Grantaire stared him with a defying look that the man did not return. He stepped away from the cynic and disappeared from his view, leaving Grantaire alone in the middle of the stage staring at the people in front of him. They all seemed to stare back.

                Some of them seemed glad. Most of them seemed sorry. Grantaire tried not to put much thought to what that meant. He wouldn’t be putting much thought into anything pretty soon.

                “Do you have any last words?”, a rough voice from somewhere to his left asked.

                Then everything happened in less than a minute.

                He didn’t have any last words. What could he say? “I love you Enjoras”? “Fuck the government”? “Death to the Chancellor”? that didn’t sound like him, and as much as he wanted Enjolras to know that he loved him, he would only expose the man even further by doing so. Plus, Enjolras wasn’t even there.

                But as he ran his eyes through the crowd one last time, looking for words to say that he couldn’t find within himself, he saw it. And for the first time in three days, his heart leaped inside his chest and, despite the pain, started to race frantically.

                He would recognize those passionate, green eyes anywhere. And he would do anything that he possibly could to wipe the tears away from them.

                Enjolras stared at him with an unreadable look. A look that was almost challenging.

                That was Grantaire’s last chance ever to show Enjolras how much he loved him.

                Grantaire had never believed in the cause. He had never believed in their success. He had never believed in _anything_.

                But he had believed in Enjolras from the moment he first laid eyes on him.

                Maybe using his death to help Enjolras’ cause would be more worth than anything he had done his entire life. Maybe doing that, Enjolras could finally forgive him, or just hate him a little bit less.

                Maybe he could prove his love.

                This whole interaction happened in mere seconds, and as the hangman waited for his last words, Grantaire suddenly remembered the words Enjolras had sung in the failed protest that felt like had happened thousands of years ago.

                The whole square was dead silent, waiting for Grantaire to say something, eyes fixed on his beaten frame. Not a single sound was heard. Now that he thought of it, one of his eyes was clearly swollen shut, and he probably looked pathetic and weak to their eyes. He could hear the footsteps of the approaching hangman.

                Meeting Enjolras’ eyes and trying to transmit as much emotion as he could through one gaze, Grantaire mustered all his remaining strength and sung:

                “Let others rise to take our place, until the Earth is free!”

                He didn’t have time to hear his words echo through the square, for the hangman shoved a dark bag on his head and the last thing he saw was Enjolras’ green eyes fixed on him before blackness enveloped him.

                He could only hope that he broke his neck on the fall.

                A millisecond of anxious anticipation took him over before a loud clang was heard and the floor disappeared from beneath his feet.

                His neck didn’t break.

                He kicked and struggled to no avail, lungs burning from the sudden lack of air and face going numb from the precarious blood flow. He couldn’t stop the kicking no matter what he did, all he was now was a bunch of twisting limbs, kicking and kicking and kicking uselessly. More than ten seconds couldn’t have passed, and yet it felt like an eternity, until the burning subsided to background ache and the screaming and yelling he thought he was hearing disappeared to give place to a loud buzzing sound that took over all his senses. He could feel his consciousness being squeezed out of him along with what was left of his air, until even the buzz, that felt pretty much like the static he had grown used to, disappeared completely.

                The last, dizzy thing he thought of was Enjolras. The last, dizzy thing he felt was his right leg giving one last spasm and connecting with something that he barely felt.

                Then there was nothing other than a void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)


	11. Chapter 11

He dreamed of warm hands and blond hair.

                Enjolras’ hands were always warm, no matter how cold the weather was. Sometimes they could get sweaty, but it wasn’t like Grantaire cared anyway. There was a flash of gold and green and fury that mixed together in a whirlwind of nothingness, making Grantaire wonder if dead men could dream. He thought he could feel something akin to numbness, but other than that, there was not much else.

                He dreamed he was on a beach at sunrise, and that the air was chilly, even though he couldn’t properly feel that. It was one of those dream-induced situations in which the dreamer can tell that something is the way it is even though there is no practical proof. The wind that he couldn’t quite feel sent his curls back against his forehead and a warm hand touched his. He smiled, not needing to look up to see who was sitting beside him on the sand. Allowing one of his feet to drift to the side, he rubbed his foot against Enjolras’ affectionately, squeezing his hand as he did so. Enjolras allowed his head to rest against Grantaire’s shoulder, but the cynic couldn’t feel the contact. There was absence where there should have been Enjolras’ scent.

                “Satisfaction consists in freedom from pain, which is the positive element of life”, Enjolras muttered, but his voice sounded alien. Lifeless. Also, this didn’t sound as if something that Enjolras would say. Grantaire frowned and turned to look at him, only to realize that Enjolras was gone as if he hadn’t been there a second before.

                “I’m right here”, Enjolras announced, and Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras standing right in front of him, tapping the sand that had clung to his legs away absentmindedly. He looked at Grantaire with invitation in his eyes and said: “I’m going for a dive. Want to join me?”

                “Are you sure?” Grantaire asked, looking past Enjolras to stare at the ocean. It looked calm, _too calm_ , which was a bit odd. Not a single wave was to be seen. Enjolras frowned at him.

                “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to”, he shrugged, and then as fast as the blink of an eye, he turned on his heels and jogged towards the sea. Grantaire hesitantly followed him, more slowly than he would have liked. His limbs felt too heavy and the sand seemed to pull him downwards like unnatural gravity. It looked like he was walking without moving from the spot.

                When he finally reached the shore, he could no longer spot Enjolras in the sea, golden hair nowhere to be seen. It was as if he had sunk on the water and disappeared. Grantaire’s heart would have skipped a beat, if it had been beating at all.

                “Enjolras?”, he called. There was no reply. The beach was even too silent, the usual sound of waves breaking against the sand was absent and Grantaire couldn’t feel his feet in contact with the ground. He couldn’t feel anything. “Enjolras!”, he tried again, without success. He allowed his body to step inside the ocean and enter the water, but the usual coldness didn’t bite his legs and he couldn’t even feel the wetness. He kept entering it further and further until the water reached his waist, his chest, his chin. Soon, the water enveloped him completely and Grantaire found himself emerged in it, but still, there was no sign of Enjolras, or of fish, or of anything at all. It was too dark to see inside it, and all his eyes could make out was blackness.

                Unconsciously, he knew that he was underwater and so calling Enjolras wouldn’t be exactly a good idea. But he wasn’t breathing anyway, and the lack of air wasn’t hurting him. He opened his mouth and tried to call Enjolras’ name, but no sound left it. Instead, a wave of water entered it and he couldn’t help but to swallow, even though it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it would probably be in real life. The water invaded his mouth and went down his throat, filling his lungs and expanding them. Suddenly, his chest felt too tight and compressed, and that was the first actual pain he felt since the beginning of the dream. Despite everything, he kept walking, going further and further into the ocean and rejoicing at the way the water pressure didn’t seem to affect him. The only thing that hurt now was his chest: it was throbbing rhythmically as if being punched over and over again. More water filled his mouth as he opened it to call Enjolras again, looking around in the empty darkness to try and find him.

                And then he spotted a mop of floating gold curls that could only belong to Enjolras, and tried to get to him faster. Was he ok? Had he drowned? What had happened to him? Grantaire tried to run but found that the maximum speed he could reach was very, very slow. As he ran, the water pushed him back, and the throbbing got stronger and more painful than before.

                As he approached Enjolras, he noticed his eyes were closed and his body was unmoving. He looked dead.

                His heart, which had been so far still inside his chest, stirred painfully and gave a faint beat.

                He had to reach Enjolras, had to help him, had to save him, he couldn’t let him die like that, he couldn’t let him die at all, he loved him so much. After painfully slow moments of struggle against the heavy water, he finally reached the leader, taking his hand into his own and pulling him away from the bottom of the sea. Enjolras stirred, opening his eyes and staring at Grantaire in confusion. Grantaire tried to open his mouth to speak, but more water entered it.

                Enjolras gave him a pitying look and placed a hand against Grantaire’s cheek. The cynic flinched at the coldness of the limb. Enjolras’ hands were always warm.

                “You need to breathe for me”, Enjolras said, and his voice was perfectly audible even underneath water, even though the sound was a little muffled to his ears. Enjolras was the only thing that he could see in that darkness. Grantaire obediently opened his mouth once more and tried to suck in the air, but only water filled it. His lungs started to burn alongside his throbbing chest.

                “I can’t”, Grantaire tried to speak, but no sound other than a gurgle left his mouth. Enjolras squeezed his hand.

                “You can do this”, he said reassuringly, taking a step closer to Grantaire. He tried again, repeatedly opening his mouth and sucking greedily, making a terrible, sickening gurgling sound, but the air didn’t reach him. He couldn’t even tell whether he was still under water or not, it was all so dark.

                “I can’t”, he tried to say again, but it was useless. His chest constricted painfully and he fell to his knees, accidentally letting go of Enjolras’ hand. “Enjolras”, he tried to say to no avail.

                “I love you”, Enjolras said, kneeling beside Grantaire and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Breathe for me”, he instructed, and the order was clear in his tone. Grantaire kept sucking in the air that never reached his lungs. His throat hurt.

                Enjolras seemed to get angry at his failure, and pushed Grantaire on his back. He collided with the floor, but didn’t feel anything other than a phantom pain. And then Enjolras climbed on the top of him.

                “Breathe”, he ordered angrily, twisting his hand into a fist and raising it above his own head. “Breathe!”, he repeated louder, allowing his hand to go down full-strength on Grantaire’s chest, punching it. Grantaire’s mouth opened in a surprised ‘o’ and his head lifted off the ground as he tried to suck in the air. His lungs were painfully burning now, and his heart was starting to stir again. “Breathe!”, Enjolras yelled, punching his chest again. “Breathe!”, another order and another punch. “C’mon!”, he yelled in frustration.

                And then it was as if an unnoticeable knot that had been constricting Grantaire’s airway dissipated and the burning, cold air invaded his throat harshly, reaching his lungs and expanding them forcefully, painfully, making him wheeze and cough and splutter all at the same time. He eagerly opened his dry mouth and sucked the air in greedily, making a terrible, sickening sound that was the only thing he could hear on that moment. His head fell back against the floor with a sharp thud as he kept making that disgusting noise, coughing his lungs out as he tried to obey Enjolras and breathe.

                He couldn’t remember exactly when his eyes had closed, but he dared to open them again, only managing to see a sky that was too bright and the blurry frightened face of a dark-haired boy who was on the top of him. There seemed to be blood on his face. Grantaire wanted to tell him something but couldn’t remember what. His senses were dull and he could tell that the boy was speaking to him and asking him something, but the words sounded as if he was kilometers away from Grantaire and were too unintelligible for his confused, cotton-like brain. The only thing he could hear was his own, ragged breathing, the wheezing sound that he made with each intake of air and a loud, high-pitched ring that overtook all other sounds and swallowed him in a world of soundlessness.

                Then exhaustion took the best of him and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, being pulled back into the comforting world of unconsciousness and senselessness.

                                                                                              -

                When he woke up, his head hurt terribly and he couldn’t breathe properly.

                There was an oxygen mask covering most of his face and he, for once, wouldn’t dare to try and take it off. Even if he wanted to, his arms felt too heavy for him to raise them. Tentatively parting his eyelids open, he tried to make sense of his surroundings, which were unfamiliar and blurred by his vision. There was a light-blue wall in front of him and a TV in front of the bed, but it was turned off. Blinking, his eyes opened further, and he even dared to lean his head to the side a bit to get a better look at the room.

                Beside the bed, the dark-haired boy was sitting, nervously biting his nails and looking at something that was resting on his lap and out of Grantaire’s line of sight. A few seconds passed before he looked up at the cynic, and his eyes widened in surprise upon seeing him awake.

                “R!”, he said, startled. Grantaire would have returned the favor by calling the boy’s name, but he couldn’t remember it for the life of him. The only thing he could remember was that this boy was supposed to hate him. He frowned in confusion as he stood up from the chair and started to examine Grantaire with shaky hands and nervous prods. He was saying something that Grantaire couldn’t make sense of, and the only word he understood out of the boy’s rant was the name _Enjolras_.

                Then he passed out again.

                                                                                                              -

                When he woke up for the second time, it was dark and he was alone in the room. Someone had done him the favor of turning the TV on, but he had grown so unused to seeing functional TVs that it made him feel more uneasy than anything else.

                He thought about getting up and trying to find out where he was and what had happened to him, but his limbs were still heavy and his breathing was still very much compromised. Instead, he ended up falling asleep again.

                The next time he woke, he felt much more lucid and conscious than the previous times. He could even manage to lift one of his hands without making much effort.

                But then he tried to prop himself into a half-sitting position on the bed, and oh boy, wasn’t that a huge mistake. A deep, sharp pain invaded his upper torso and he couldn’t help but to yelp, tears quickly reaching his eyes as he lost balance and fell back against the pillows. The yelp sent a burning through his throat and he flinched, shutting his eyes close tightly.

                Then there were hands on him, and a familiar voice said:

                “Don’t move too much, R, two of your ribs are broken”.

                He opened his teary eyes, looking up to see Joly standing at his bedside, a worried and pitying look in his eyes. He could see Grantaire opening his mouth to speak beneath the oxygen mask and promptly interrupted him.

                “No, no speaking. You’ll regret it”, he instructed, bending over to fetch a cup of cool water that was sitting on the bed stand. He gently removed the mask from Grantaire’s face and sustained his head so he could drink. Grantaire winced as soon as the water passed his throat, but swallowed anyway, just now realizing how thirsty he was. “Easy”, Joly soothed as Grantaire started to gulp the water madly. “You haven’t drunk anything in a while, if you drink too fast you’ll be sick”.

                Grantaire allowed Joly to ease his head back onto the pillows and took in a deep, shaky breath that made his ribs ache and his throat sting. He looked up at the young doctor, who was fidgeting with Grantaire’s IV.

                “What happened?”, he asked, and his voice was so rough and croaked that the flinched at both the pain and the sound. He sounded like a dying old man who had just smoked eight packs of cigarette.

                “What do you remember?”, Joly asked, and instantly shook his head with violence. “No, no, no speaking for you. Uh, sorry R, I’ve been so stressed out with everything that happened”, he sighed, sitting back down on his chair. “Ah, let me see. You were sentenced to death. Remember that?”

                Grantaire nodded, placing the oxygen mask back on his face when he started to feel a little bit too breathless.

                “Enjolras got desperate as soon as he found out what was going to happen to you. We had plans to start a revolution, we’ve been planning it for a few years now, but it was like, top secret. Only a few Amis such as Enjolras and Ferre knew all the details, and we didn’t exactly share things with newbies as a matter of safety”, Joly’s eyes darted away from Grantaire’s frame, and the cynic’s heart twisted painfully inside his chest from regret and guilt. “Anyway. When Enjolras found out that you had been sentenced to death, he… he mobilized everyone. He told people it was the time to rise against oppressors, and planned a rising at the square at the time of your execution. None of us had been expecting that you’d… that you’d say those words”, there was a small pause in which Joly bit down at his nails again, finally meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “That stirred something into the people. They… well. I reached you just mere seconds after you hung but you were already…”, he sighed, closing his eyes and reopening them to stare at his own feet. “I performed CPR. And yeah, here we are. You were unconscious for three days, so I still have to check for side effects from the amount of time you spent without breathing, and you were severely malnourished and dehydrated when you arrived. You have two broken ribs and a lot of bruises everywhere, but other than that, you should be fine”, Joly said, but his tone lacked its usual joyfulness and his voice was monotone. Only then Grantaire noticed the dark circles beneath the boy’s eyes and the tiredness in his expression.

                Grantaire stared for a couple seconds before removing the oxygen mask once more and asking:

                “Enjolras?”

                It was all he could manage to say without making his throat feel like it was on fire. His voice sounded terrible to his own ears, and Joly’s face sunk, eyes still avoiding Grantaire’s. He didn’t respond.

                “Why…”, he gave a little cough that made his ribs ache and his throat burn even further. But he needed to know. “He… hates me. Why… do all… that?”

                Joly bit his lower lip, looking up at the ceiling. He looked as if he was restraining tears.

                “Patron-Minette tagged your place”, Joly explained, voice constricted. “They had been recording you for almost a year. And they were stupid enough to send the video files to Enjolras”.

                Grantaire kept staring in confusion. So, Enjolras watched him fucking random strangers and snorting morphine like mad all day. What about that could possibly make him start a revolution over Grantaire’s sorry ass?

                “We saw you get beaten, R”, Joly explained patiently, even if his voice betrayed his nervousness. “And we saw you lie to them about the info they wanted”. There was a small pause. “We know you were coerced”, he concluded finally.

                “Still”, Grantaire protested weakly. “He hates… me”, he said with his hoarse voice. “He s-said he… never wanted… to see me… again”, he coughed, wincing.

                “Back to the mask”, Joly ordered, taking the mask from Grantaire’s limp hand and shoving it back against his face. Grantaire only complied because of the relief the oxygen gave him. Joly clicked his tongue and sighed before continuing. “He doesn’t hate you, R, he was just… shocked. When we got to know all of that. He wasn’t the only one”, Joly averted his eyes from Grantaire once more. “He wouldn’t have put the effort to save you if he hated you”.

                Grantaire blinked in confusion. Could it be true? He faintly remembered the hanging, the lack of air and the blackness that followed, but there wasn’t much else in his memory. He was supposed to be dead, and yet, here he was, because Enjolras, of all people, had saved him. He had started a revolution over him.

                Wait.

                Grantaire removed the mask once more, ignoring the way Joly glared at him.

                “What happened?” he panted, voice hoarse and throat aching at the words. Joly frowned.

                “I just told you –“

                “No”, he shook his head, eyes shutting in pain. “Revolution”, he managed to say through a painful coughing fit. “Wha’ happened?”

                Joly bit his lower lip once more, and grief took over his expression.

                Grantaire’s heart skipped a beat.

                “Joly?”, he asked, breathing pattern growing faster and heart thumping madly inside his chest. What had happened? Why wasn’t Joly saying anything?

                “We made it”, Joly said, but there was no joy in his voice whatsoever. “The Chancellor’s dead. The people took the power and there is an election being planned for next month”.

                Grantaire stared at him, waiting. There was something terribly wrong. Why wasn’t Joly happy? Why wasn’t he celebrating?

                Sudden realization hit him and once again he couldn’t breathe properly.

                “Joly”, he said slowly, carefully, voice shaking from dread and nervousness. “Where… where is Enjolras?”

                Joly chocked out a sob that he had been holding ever since Grantaire woke up and immediately covered his face with both hands, not wanting the cynic to see him like that. Grantaire propped himself up against the pillows into a sitting position and ignored the pain in his ribs, because honestly, that was the least of his worries right then. His heart was beating faster than he ever remembered and the ache in his throat was only background pain now, because all that mattered was the information that only Joly could give him.

                “Tell me”, Grantaire whispered, horrified. His hands were shaking and he felt dizzy.

                “He got shot”, Joly muttered between sobs, still not looking at Grantaire. “He was the first one to get to you after…”, he took in a deep breath. “He cut off the rope that was hanging you and started to perform the CPR while I couldn’t get to you. The whole square became a chaos, there were so many people”, Joly sobbed, lifting his head to look up at the ceiling again as the tears rolled down his cheek. “But someone shot him. I don’t know who, I couldn’t see it, I…”, he took in a shaky deep breath. “He was talking to you while I reanimated you, trying to… to…”, another pause. “And then out of nowhere he fell back, I didn’t even hear the gunshot, because there were so many gunshots, all I know is he fell back and started to bleed out and I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know, maybe I could have helped him if you had been breathing but you weren’t and I didn’t know who to save and – oh my god Grantaire, you need to breathe!” Joly despaired, finally noticing the way that Grantaire was hyperventilating.

                Grantaire’s shaky hands were lifted up to his face and holding his own head while his face sustained a horrified expression. The oxygen mask had fallen off the bed and was nowhere to be seen, and the man’s chest was rising and falling more rapidly than it should. Tears were already running down his pale face and he was emitting pitying, pained sobs that echoed across the room. He fidgeted helplessly on the bed, and the only word that could describe him on that moment was desperate.

                “Oh my god, I killed him”, Grantaire was sobbing, face scrunching up in pain, one arm passing around his ribs as if to hold them in place. “I killed him, I killed him, I killed –“, he doubled over on the bed, pulling his own hair. Joly was frantically searching for the oxygen mask, and finally found it, pushing it unceremoniously against Grantaire’s face. Grantaire didn’t care about holding it in place, and Joly had to do that for him. Why should he care? Every single think he had done, every argument, every mockery, everything had been to the sole purpose of preventing Enjolras’ death. He was a coward and a piece of shit for not standing up for Montparnasse sooner, but still, there was no way he could go on knowing that Enjolras was no longer alive, and especially since that had all been his fault.

                He betrayed Enjolras’ trust and hurt him. There was no reason whatsoever for Enjolras to keep loving him, and yet, he saved Grantaire. And now he was dead because of him. This made him sob harder, and he didn’t even notice that the air was barely reaching his lungs.

                “Grantaire, calm the fuck down, he isn’t dead”, he said, rubbing the cynic’s back as if to reassure him. “He’s in surgery right now, but he isn’t dead, listen to me!”, he shook Grantaire by the shoulders, trying to catch his attention. “Enjolras is alive!”

                Grantaire looked up at him with red, glassy eyes that were confused and apprehensive. His eyes begged Joly for an explanation that he couldn’t ask through words.

                “He got shot in the chest, yes, but he’s alive”, Joly explained. “He went through surgery two days ago and he’s going through another right now, just calm down, ok?”, he begged nervously, even though his own voice was shaking and his face was blotted from tears. “I’m just freaking out because this is all too much, but he’s ok, he’s gonna be ok, you didn’t kill him alright?”

                The shock that information caused was too much for him to handle and he fell back against the pillows, weary to the bone. His breathing was still uneven and the tears were still running down his cheeks, but Joly’s words made him feel easier. Enjolras wasn’t dead. He hadn’t killed him. He was alive. He was alive.

                “I need to see him”, Grantaire chocked out, shoving the blankets away from him as if to get out of the bed.

                “Absolutely not!”, Joly yelled, frantic. “You need to rest, there is no way you can – don’t you dare!”, he snapped, but it was too late. Grantaire tore the IV from his own hand and shoved it to the side, managing to get his heavy legs to the edge of the bed and hop off it.

                And then he tried to take a step and fell on his face like a sack of potatoes.

                Joly was cursing him as he kneeled down to help him up, but as he pulled Grantaire to his feet, the cynic noticed something.

                There was something wrong with his right leg.

                “Joly”, Grantaire said, horror clear in his tone. He swallowed dry as the young man dragged him back to the bed and helped him sit down. Locking eyes with Joly while bearing an expression of pure fear, he said: “I… I can’t move… I can’t move my right leg”.

                “What?” Joly froze in the spot, eyes never leaving Grantaire’s. He blinked several times before speaking again. “Lay back. Let me examine you”.

                “But I need to see –“

                “You need to lie the fuck back before I sedate the hell out of you!”, Joly snapped again, and Grantaire had never seen him that aggressive before, and despite of his urgency to see Enjolras, he allowed himself to be pushed back onto the pillows and tensely lie down while Joly prodded his leg carefully. “Do you feel that?”, he asked.

                “Yes”, Grantaire said shakily.

                “Try to bend it”, Joly instructed. Grantaire did as he was told. The best he could manage was to make it fidget for a moment. “Now the other one”, Joly ordered, biting at his thumb and staring intently at Grantaire’s left leg. Grantaire managed to bend it, even though the leg was shaky.

                “Joly”, Grantaire asked, voice constricted from fear. “What’s… what’s wrong with my leg? Why doesn’t it… why…”, he drifted off, tears pooling in his eyes once more. He looked away from his friend’s face, unable to look at him anymore. Sudden realization hit him.

                Joly said he needed to check him for brain damage. His brain probably went too long without proper oxygen. And now his leg wasn’t working. He was damaged. He was ruined for good.

                Not only he was still alive, but now he’d be a burden.

                For fuck’s sake, he’d betrayed those people, he had sold them, and now he would be nothing but dead weight for them. An inconvenience, a burden. He didn’t realize that he had burst into tears again until Joly’s hands tapped his face and tried to call his attention. Why was he helping Grantaire? He was supposed to hate him, he was supposed to loathe him, Grantaire didn’t deserve his pity or his compassion or his empathy. Grantaire didn’t deserve anything from any of them; for all he knew, Enjolras could die any second during this surgery he was going through, he could be dead already, he could have just died that very second and it would be Grantaire’s fault, it would be all his fault and he wouldn’t be able to live with that guilt, he wouldn’t be able to live while being even more of a burden to others.

                “Don’t make me sedate you”, Joly was saying from somewhere beside him, but he couldn’t prevent the sobs from tearing out of his chest, he couldn’t help the shaking and the wheezing and the hyperventilating, as much as they hurt his ribs and his throat. His words were turned into only pain and tears, until he felt a phantom sting on his left arm and heard Joly’s muffled voice telling him something that got farther and farther away until it became background noise and disappeared completely.

                                                                                              -

                He was fucking tired of waking up without remembering where he was.

                Eyes still closed, he slowly became aware of his surroundings, sounds focusing into something understandable and the strong smell of sanitizer making his nostrils burn.

                “We can’t predict how he’ll react”, he could hear a voice that sounded like Joly’s whisper. “Maybe seeing Enjolras here beside him will calm him down a little. He’s a mess right now, Ferre, I can just imagine what’s going on inside his head”.

                “What do you mean?”, Combeferre whispered, voice low.

                Joly took in a deep breath and clicked his tongue before continuing.

                “He clearly regrets everything he’s done… he clearly loves Enjolras, too. But he doesn’t think he deserves our forgiveness, and especially not Enjolras’, because he thinks he’s the reason he got shot. Since his leg isn’t functioning properly, he also thinks he’ll be a burden to us and will probably end up doing something very, very stupid”, he sighed. A few moments of tense silence passed. “Grantaire may not admit it to himself, but we were good friends once. Best friends. And I know him better than he thinks I do”, there were footsteps echoing across the hospital room, until Grantaire could feel a presence beside his bed. He still didn’t open his eyes. “I can also tell when he’s faking sleep”, Joly added, voice in a normal tone, now.

                Grantaire opened his eyes to stare up at the man, who had raised an eyebrow at him.

                “You got me there”, he croaked, straightening himself on the bed and wincing because of the pain it caused.

                “How are you feeling?”, Joly asked, fetching the cynic a cool glass of water and handing it to him. Combeferre watched the exchange from the corner of the room, arms crossed above his chest and completely silent.

                “Like shit”, Grantaire replied honestly, returning the now empty glass to Joly.

                “I don’t doubt it. Do you feel any intense pain?” Joly asked.

                “Yeah, my ribs”, Grantaire croaked out, staring at his own leg instead of facing the young doctor. “But I don’t suppose you can do anything about that, can you”, he snorted, self-deprecating.

                “You know I can’t, R”, Joly said, almost apologetically. He couldn’t give Grantaire morphine, it was out of the table.

                “What about my leg?”, Grantaire asked, trying his best not to allow the hope to sip through his voice, which was still hoarse and raspy. “Can you do something about it?”

                At Joly’s silence, he looked up. His eyes were full of emotion and sorrow.

                “Physiotherapy should make you recover nearly all movements on your leg”, Joly said with a serious expression. “But it won’t be easy and… it will probably start to hurt. But as long as you don’t give up, you should be fine”.

                Grantaire covered his face with both hands and rubbed it, pushing his hair back.

                “What a fucking mess, right”, he commented, turning his head away from Joly as he remembered the man’s words from just a few minutes ago. And then he froze on the spot, hand going still where it had been rubbing at his curls.

                Enjolras was lying on a bed right beside him.

                How did he not notice that before?

                The bed had been pulled closer to Grantaire’s until they were glued together, which meant that Enjolras was mere inches away from the cynic, who was staring at the unconscious man with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

                “We thought it would be better to your… current state, if you had Enjolras near you, rather than limping your way through the hospital trying to find him”, Combeferre explained, and Grantaire faintly noticed that those were the first words the man had said since Grantaire woke up.

                Grantaire stared in awe for a few more seconds before swallowing dry (and painfully) and finally mustering the words he wanted to say.

                “How… How is he?”

                Combeferre stepped closer until he was on the opposite side of Enjolras’ bed, arms still crossed above his chest.

                “He’s going to be fine, Grantaire”, he explained patiently, almost in a patronizing way. “There will be no collateral damage, but he can’t work out too hard or be too stressed for a while. I hope you understand that”.

                Grantaire finally tore his eyes away from Enjolras’ too-still form and looked at Combeferre.

                “Do you…”, he swallowed dry, looking up and down before meeting the man’s eyes again. “I mean… I can leave if you –“

                “No leaving!”, Joly said nervously. “You still need physiotherapy for that leg and you’re nowhere near to recovered”. There was a subtle pause, after which Joly added: “Plus, no one wants you to leave”.

                “That’s true”, Combeferre added, before Grantaire could say anything. “I understand this must be hard for you to believe, and don’t think that forgiving you wasn’t hard, either”, he said, more harshly than he had intended. “But we understand that what happened was out of your control”.

                Grantaire stared at him. They stared at each other for several seconds before Grantaire chuckled. And then the chuckle turned into laughter and he threw his head back, ignoring the way his neck burned at the motion.

                “What the hell is wrong with you people?” he asked, exasperated, a maniac, humorless smile twisting his face. “I fucking betrayed you. _I sold you out for morphine_. Why are you so easily forgiving me? Why are you pretending that none of this happened? Enjolras got fucking shot because I am a piece of shit, and let’s face it, it would be so much goddamn better if you all could have honored your fucking balls and done the right thing which was leave me to die on that fucking gallows!”, he ended up yelling, throat sore and voice raspy. Both Combeferre and Joly were staring down at him.

                And then Joly slapped him on the face, making his head turn abruptly from the unexpected impact. He didn’t dare to turn it back, feeling the burning of his cheek increasing instead.

                “Don’t ever say that again”, Joly muttered, voice shaking from anger. “Don’t ever diminish your life like that ever again. You fucked up, yeah, and you betrayed us, but I know you Grantaire, stop pretending we weren’t friends for years! I know how much you regret this whole story, and I know that you wouldn’t have done this if you weren’t so addicted, and I know that you made shitty decisions in your life but what is past is past and the only thing we can do now is concentrate on the future because it’s all that matters”, he took in a deep breath. “And I don’t care if you’re a junkie or if you betrayed me or if you won’t ever be able to move your leg again, you are my friend and I care about you and it breaks my heart to see you unhappy like this”. He suddenly took a step forward, breaking the distance between himself and the cynic, and enveloped Grantaire in a tight hug with no regard for his broken ribs. “I love you, R”, Joly whispered, voice shaky from tears now. “Let me be there for you. I can help. We all can. And I don’t care what you think you deserve, I forgive you”.

                At these words, Grantaire started sobbing again, and even though he felt pathetic for crying so much in such a short period of time, Joly’s hug made him feel the slightest bit better. He allowed his head to rest against the man’s shoulder, doing his best to ignore the burning pain in his ribs as he continued to sob, body shaking.

                “I’m sorry”, he ended up saying, voice muffled, despite of himself. “I’m so sorry”.

                “We know, R”, Joly reassured him, fingers caressing his hair slowly. Combeferre approached them slowly, and hesitantely leaned down so that his arms could envelop Grantaire too. It felt a bit odd and alien, since he and Combeferre had never exchanged much physical contact, but at the same time, it made Grantaire feel the slightest bit less like utter crap. Eventually, they stepped back, and Grantaire felt overwhelmed by emotion and tiredness.

                “I never meant for any of this to happen”, Grantaire said, giving one final chocked sob. “I never wanted any of this”. He turned on his side so that he could look at Enjolras’ unconscious form. He didn’t know why he was saying the words; it felt as if he would explode unless he spoke them. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t… I don’t deserve to lie by his side. Not when I’m the one who put him here”.

                “Enjolras’ choices were his own”, Combeferre intervened with patience. “He would have done the same for any other person he loved”.

                “How can he still love me?” Grantaire asked, voice merely above a whisper, allowing one of his hands to hover above Enjolras’ pale face without ever touching it. It felt wrong to touch him, to caress him without his explicit consent after everything they went through. Grantaire suddenly remembered the way Enjolras had kicked him out of his house, screaming that he hated him, telling him never to come back. Flinching, he retrieved his hand, eyes still glued to Enjolras’ too still form. “How could he save me after everything I’ve done?”

                “Love is not a rational sentiment”, Combeferre sighed. “That’s probably why it’s so pure”.

                “I don’t want purity”, Grantaire muttered. “I want him to be fine”.

                “He will be”, Joly repeated, taking a step closer to the pair on the joined bed. “He should wake in a few hours”.

                Grantaire looked up at the standing pair, horrified.

                “What am I supposed to do when he wakes?” he asked, feeling like an insecure teen with a crush all of a sudden. What was he supposed to tell Enjolras? He had already begged for forgiveness and been denied. And on the top of that, Enjolras got shot to save him despite of all his mistakes. There was absolutely nothing he could tell Enjolras.

                “He’ll probably be pretty out of it when he first wakes up”, Combeferre shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry too much about talking for now”.

                “And you should probably rest”, Joly added. “As I said, you’re nowhere near to recovering”.

                “But I…”, Grantaire started, voice dying in his throat as Joly started to pick up some medical equipment and made to leave the room. Combeferre gave him one final look of sympathy mixed with serenity before leaving right after Joly and closing the door behind them.

                They were probably really, fucking crazy. Enjolras got shot because of Grantaire, who had betrayed their trust and, technically, could have gotten them all killed, and now they left them both together inside a room, sharing a bed, Enjolras injured and unconscious. Really, what was wrong with these people?

                And mostly, what was wrong with Enjolras? Why on earth would he put himself in danger to save Grantaire, why would he still love him after all that? His ribs ached as he leaned back on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. Eyes never leaving Enjolras’ form, Grantaire tried to control his own heartbeat, which increased with every rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest. He looked so small, underneath the heavy blankets that Joly had gotten him, and he looked so pale and fragile. His full lips, which were often rosy, were now white as sheets, slightly ajar and cracked from dryness. If it wasn’t for the steady – and yet shallow – rise and fall of his chest, Grantaire would have thought that he was…

                No. Just that mere thought was enough to make him start to panic again. More tears rose to his eyes, and this time he managed to blink them away before he became a sobbing mess again. He had cried enough for a lifetime, and embarrassed himself enough too. Plus, everyone had forgiven him, right? Including Enjolras. There was no reason for him to cry, unless it was from happiness.

                But still, it felt wrong that they all forgave him so easily. It felt… unfair. He deserved to suffer. He had earned that, right? He had betrayed everyone – including Montparnasse, who had kept him alive for all those years – and he deserved to suffer for that. He didn’t need, nor deserved, their pity or sympathy. He didn’t deserve Joly’s care, as much as he insisted that Grantaire didn’t have a say in that. He had left Joly, for god’s sake.

                And there was his leg, too. How was he supposed to…? Enjolras didn’t stop loving him after his betrayal; he wouldn’t stop loving him because his leg didn’t work anymore. And still, just the thought of the sad looks that Enjolras would give him, or the pity in his friend’s eyes, or the help he would need to do basic things, made his stomach churn and his body shiver painfully. He felt useless, and worthless, like a fucking parasite, because that’s what he is, isn’t it? All he does is suck things out of people, he makes them feel sorry for him, he makes them pity him, and they end up giving him things out of sympathy. He made Enjolras love him – for whatever reason, he still didn’t quite figure it out – and betrayed him in return, he made the Amis like him and sold them out. Enjolras got shot on his behalf. He didn’t add anything good to anybody’s lives. All he did was take, and take, and take.

                Self-loathing grew sickly within him, making him twist his lips in a scowl of disgust at his own self. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He had been conformed about his death, he had been ready. Nothing could ever be worse than Enjolras’ despise.

                But he didn’t despise him, did he? Fuck, he was so confused. He hated himself, but the tiniest shred of hope that still lingered somewhere deep, deep down him made him want to stay around, just so that he could see if Enjolras really was ok. Plus, he wouldn’t be able to just leave with that leg, right?

                He had been so caught up on those thoughts that it took him a while to notice that Enjolras had been stirring on the bed, eyelids fluttering and fingers twitching. It was only when Enjolras let out a loud groan that Grantaire came back to his senses, eyes widening upon the sight of the waking leader.

                “Enjolras, oh my god”, he whispered, struggling to turn on the bed so he could get closer to him. Upon hearing Grantaire’s voice, Enjolras’ eyes shot open, gaze unfocused and glassy. He looked around in confusion for longer than Grantaire would have liked, before his eyes finally settled on Grantaire’s form beside him.

                The room was emerged in a tense silence that was nearly tangible. Enjolras’s eyes blinked sluggishly at Grantaire, until they became focused enough to recognize him. When this happened, his pale lips twisted upwards to form a smile, and one of his shaky hands found its way to weakly grasp Grantaire’s.

                “R”, he whispered, voice hoarse. There were tears on Grantaire’s eyes again, but he didn’t bother to brush them away. All the thoughts about leaving seemed stupid and senseless upon hearing Enjolras’ voice and seeing his beautiful smile. As selfish as that was, how could he possibly leave him behind? “You’re alive”, Enjolras continued, sounding very pleased even through the weakness of his voice.

                “Yes”, Grantaire sniffled. He squeezed Enjolras’ hand. He couldn’t help but to smile back at the leader.

                “I was so worried”, Enjolras murmured, eyes slipping close again. He looked exhausted. His head leaned closer to Grantaire’s body on the bed.

                “I was, too”, Grantaire said, voice shaky. “You shouldn’t have done that”.

                “Wha’?”, Enjolras slurred, frowning slightly even though his eyes were still closed.

                “You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger because of me”, Grantaire explained, smile slowly dropping to give place to a grieving expression. “You… I don’t deserve it”.

                Enjolras eyelids parted once more, and though his eyes looked a bit more unfocused than before, he stared fixedly at Grantaire as if he had gone mad.

                “Oh… so… that’s what happened”, he ended up croaking, blinking sluggishly.

                “You don’t remember?” Grantaire asked sadly, worry and concern for Enjolras’ state growing. That was normal, right? Was he supposed to remember what had happened to him?

                “I remember…”, Enjolras started, taking in a deep breath. “I remember you being… hanged… and then I got to you and caught your legs but you were… kicking so much. I cut off the rope and put you down on the floor, and then Joly arrived and started performing CPR, and I was… talking to you, when… I… I don’t remember anything else”. He stared up at Grantaire with apprehensive eyes.

                “You were shot”, Grantaire said after several moments of silent staring. “Someone shot you because you helped me”.

                “It wasn’t your fault”, Enjolras breathed out, voice slurred and clearly tired.

                “It was –“, Grantaire started.

                “It wasn’t”, Enjolras interrupted with a faint squeeze to his hand. “I prom’se”, he slurred.

                Combeferre had said that Enjolras wasn’t supposed to be distressed while he recovered. Instead of arguing with him, Grantaire nodded briefly, turning his eyes away from the man.

                “I believe you”, Grantaire muttered. “And I’m sorry”.

                “I know you are”, Enjolras’ eyes slipped close once more. “And I forgive you”.

                Grantaire’s heart leaped inside his chest and he could feel emotion start to take the best of him again. To hear those words come out of Enjolras’ mouth was a blessing, even though everyone had told him that Enjolras had forgiven him already.

                “You do?” Grantaire asked, despite of himself. Enjolras let out a tiny sigh that was followed by a sweet, sleepy smile.

                “Of course I do. I love you”, he murmured, sounding unaware.

                “I love you too”, Grantaire said, heart skipping a beat. He never thought he’d be able to tell those words to Enjolras again, and even though the circumstances weren’t perfect, any opportunity was better than no opportunity at all. “But you need rest”, Grantaire said sweetly, daring to gently lift Enjolras’ nearly limp hand from where it was resting on the bed and placing a kiss on the top of it. “You’re still recovering”.

                Enjolras’ hands slowly – weakly – traced their way up Grantaire’s chest, until it reached his neck. His (cold) fingers lingered there, gently brushing the skin with an absentmindedness resulting from sleep. Only as Enjolras’ thumb brushed his skin, Grantaire realize how it stung.

                “I’m so sorry”, Enjolras whispered, looking sad. “If I hadn’t kicked you out…”

                “Enjolras, no”, Grantaire said, holding Enjolras’ hand in his. How could Enjolras possibly blame himself for that? Grantaire had it coming, he had it coming from the moment he took that stupid job. He knew that nothing good could possibly come out of it. If anything, Enjolras was the least guilty. “It wasn’t your fault”, he added, poorly managing to hide the horror from his voice.

                “It was”, Enjolras protested, but couldn’t speak much longer for he broke into a coughing fit that would probably do no good in his current state. “Crap”, he managed to chocke between coughs, eyes shutting tight from discomfort. “Could you… fetch… water”, he coughed, fingers clutching tightly to the bedsheets.

                Grantaire turned his head to look at where the water was. The jar was sitting at the nightstand, which was merely a few feet away from the bed. Even with his leg paralyzed, he could manage to grab it, right?

                Right?

                He looked back at Enjolras, whose face was growing red and whose brown was twisted in pain. He couldn’t leave him like that. Bending over, Grantaire ignored the painful, throbbing protest his ribs gave, and tried to reach for the jar and the glass beside it. He wasn’t near enough, though, and Enjolras’ coughs were growing more and more consistent. He dragged himself across the bed, ignoring the way his still leg was dragged like deadweight. He would have to throw one leg off the bed, since the two beds had been dragged to be glued to each other and now the nightstand was too far away. He did so, putting his left – and good – leg off the bed, reaching for the glass. Behind him, Enjolras was still coughing, wheezing audibly.

                “Just breathe, Enj”, he instructed, a sheen layer of sweat starting to form on his forehead. “I’m fetching your water ok?”

                He managed to grab the cup but not the jar. For that, he’d have to put both legs off the bed.

                _This is easy. You can do this_ , he thought to himself. _It’s just a stupid glass of water, you’re not useless to this point, are you?_

Placing the glass back at the nightstand, he grabbed his right leg with both hands and threw it off the edge of the bed.

                It felt so weird.

                He managed to take hold of the cup and the jar and poured the water for Enjolras, and then he naturally shifted his weight so that he could turn on the bed to give the coughing man his water.

                But he forgot that his leg was no longer able to sustain his weight, and with a surprised, sharp intake of breath, he lost balance and fell to the floor.

                He collided with the ground with a sharp thud that rattled his broken ribs and made it impossible for him not to scream with the sheer agony that it made him feel. The glass fell out of his grasp, not breaking but spilling water everywhere, and he curled onto himself, trying to make the pain stop somehow. In this pain-filled haze, he missed the way Enjolras screamed his name in between coughs, and the way his right leg wasn’t pulled up to his chest along with his right.

                And then someone barged into the room, rushed footsteps approaching him and then Joly’s face came into focus, asking him frantically what had happened and trying to check him for injuries.

                “Give the water to Enjolras”, Grantaire instructed, voice clearly constricted and shaky from the pain he was enduring. Joly seemed reluctant, but then he must have realized that it wasn’t safe for Enjolras to be coughing that much, and grabbed the cup from where it was lying beside Grantaire’s head on the floor. Without being able to see what was going on at the bed above him, Grantaire merely waited, trying to listen to what was going on. Eventually, Enjolras’ coughing died down, and only the sound of panting could be heard.

                “Where’s R?” Enjolras panted weakly, sounding more exhausted than before. Joly was immediately by Grantaire’s side again, passing a hand beneath his armpits and helping him to get back on his feet with an incredible, unknown strength, all the while ignoring Grantaire’s groans of protest.

                “What happened?” Joly asked as he helped Grantaire lay back down. He couldn’t stare the young doctor in the eye, he just couldn’t. He absolutely hated being an invalid.

                “I tried to fetch his water and fell”, Grantaire said, not looking up from his own lap. He could feel heat rising to his face in the form of a blush.

                “Are you ok?” Enjolras slurred, worry clear in his tone.

                “I’m just fine”, Grantaire said, giving Enjolras a smile that felt fake even to himself. Enjolras didn’t seem convinced. And then Joly lift Grantaire’s shirt, and the cynic couldn’t prevent a hiss of pain.

                “Wha’s wrong?” Enjolras slurred, looking as if he was about to pass out.

                “His ribs are broken”, Joly explained absentmindedly as he examined Grantaire.

                “That’s why he fell?” Enjolras frowned, confused.

                Joly looked up at Grantaire, who was staring back at him defiantly. None of them said a word.

                “R”, Enjolras breathed out simply, stretching out a hand to Grantaire.

                “Enjolras, you need rest”, Joly instructed as Grantaire grabbed hold of Enjolras’ hand and squeezed it. “Just go to sleep, ok? Grantaire’s not going anywhere, he’ll be here right beside you”.

                Enjolras gave Joly a groan that was almost childlike, but with a single look to his face, Grantaire could tell that he was about to fall asleep at any given moment.

                “Enj”, Grantaire said patiently, despite of the burning of his ribs that made his voice sound tight and forced. He squeezed the man’s hand tightly. “I love you ok? But you need to get some sleep”.

                “But…”, Enjolras started and then stopped himself, as if he didn’t have a good enough argument.

                “No but. I’ll be here when you wake up”, Grantaire placed another kiss on the top of Enjolras’ hand. _Is that a good enough reason to make you go to sleep? Why would you want to wake up to me?_ , he ended up asking himself.

                “Prom’se?”, Enjolras slurred, and that was a good enough reason for Grantaire not to put much thought into that for a while.

                “I promise”, Grantaire breathed out through gritted teeth as Joly started to pass a bandage around his torso. Enjolras made a low hum on the back of his neck and his hand relaxed beneath Grantaire’s touch. He was seemingly asleep, when Grantaire made to remove his hand. Enjolras grabbed hold of it, intertwining their fingers. His eyes were still closed.

                “R?”, he called, voice small.

                “Yes?” Grantaire responded as gently as he could.

                “I forgive you”, Enjolras said, sleepily. “And I love you”.

                Grantaire failed to hide his tears from Joly, despite his best efforts.

                “I love you too”, he settled for saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this sucks

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thank you so much for reading this!  
> If you enjoyed it, please leave kudos and comments, they motivate me to write faster and actually make my day!  
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated, too!  
> You can always find me on tumblr as edema--ruh and on twitter as plutoactivist ;-)


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